


Snare

by Arcanista



Series: This Broken Melody [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: (Or is it?), 5.3 lore-compatible, Apparently this is a food fanfic now, Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), Breakfast, Choking, Collars, Come Eating, Crying During Sex, F/F, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Gloves, Hair Washing, Hair-pulling, Kissing, Labour Relations, Light Bondage, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person Limited, Panic Attacks, Pegging, Poor Life Choices, Post-5.1, Power Dynamics, Present Tense, Pubic Hair, Return of Wizard Bondage, Roommates to Enemies, Roommates to Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers but Nobody's Happy About It, Scratching, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Spanking, Tempered Warrior of Light, Theoryfic, They're Still Tsundere For Each Other, Unfortunate Incident is a maxheight hellsguard with a lore-compliant name, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Wake-Up Sex, Wall to wall tsunderes really, Wizard Sex, creation magic, do not eat on an empty stomach, femroe 4 lyfe, massive clusterfuck arguments, navelgazing, tsundere emet-selch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22381795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: The Warrior of Light systematically burns every bridge around her, insisting she has no one she can turn to but the Ascians in her quest to undo the flaws of Zodiark's creation. Meanwhile, former friends desperately seek to stop her from betraying all they have ever worked for, despite it being almost certainly too late.Emet-Selch, revived by the Warrior's black magic, stands caught between disgust and desire for the lover he once knew and the half-souled witch she is now. He cannot avoid her: death has not ended his own enigmatic plans, and she is a tool at his disposal.Elidibus can feel the jaws of a trap closing in from all sides, and must find and stop the source before all is brought to ruin.All would save the world in the manner they deem best fit. They cannot all succeed. Nor are they the only forces at play...Continuation ofSnag.
Relationships: Deudalaphon/Halmarut (Final Fantasy XIV), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Ryne | Minfilia & Halmarut, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Series: This Broken Melody [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561837
Comments: 69
Kudos: 92





	1. Prologue: Verdance

For her money, the most beautiful thing Ryne has ever seen in her life is the sky in mid-afternoon. A few bright, puffy clouds dot the azure expanse; the violet trees and bright domes of the Cystarium strain upwards, but only the vast spire of the Tower has any hope of reaching the heavens. And yet, warm and loving, the sun smiles down upon everything. Sometimes she has her doubts, her questions, her fears, but all she needs to do to banish them is walk through the Quadrivium in the sunlight.

She stops short when she hears bits and pieces of a conversation coming from behind the curving market walls. This shouldn't be unusual but the voice she hears is-- high pitched and thickly accented, like a pixie. Ryne ducks into the shadow of the building and inches closer to try to overhear better.

Eavesdropping has always been one of her worst habits. In Eulmore, she had little else to do with her time, even though it mostly just got her in trouble. But it makes Thancred smile. He's told her some tips to do it more effectively, ways to not be seen, ways to be better ignored.

"No, no, not like that," she hears the pixie-voice say. "He's been looking at all kinds of boring old books about the dead places no one goes. I heard he went there, but why would he do that? There's nothing out there!"

Ryne's eyes widen. The pixie couldn't be talking about Urianger, could they? She wiggles forward until she's made her way far enough around to be able to see who the pixie is talking to.

There's a woman sitting under a tree, facing away from Ryne. The pixie flits around her head, doing some flips in the air. Ryne frowns, looking at her. She doesn't _seem_ out of the ordinary from this angle. Long auburn hair, held back with a blue ribbon. A light dress. Then why does just looking at her make all the hair on Ryne's arms stand on end?

Whatever she says to the pixie is too quiet for Ryne to hear. The pixie, however, is loud enough. "He talked to her after the last time she visited the king but she didn't stay very long. He didn't start reading anything different after. But right after she left, he _did_ share the really good wine with us!"

Her eyes almost slide off the woman as Ryne looks closer, squinting. But she _has_ to find out more, if this person's spying on Urianger, or Unfortunate. Ryne concentrates as she stares at the strange woman, trying to fix as much as she can in her memory. Her vision slips into looking for souls, far more distinct than the sight of a woman from behind-- and she has to stifle a gasp at what she sees.

The woman's soul is a rich, near-black brown, the colour of good fertile earth. More vivid a shade than most, but that's not what shocks Ryne. It's that her soul is dense and layered, folding in on itself and somehow _reinforced_. It's a little bit like looking at Unfortunate's soul since defeating Emet-Selch... and it's a little bit like what his was like, too.

And she turns and she looks directly at Ryne. She smiles and waves Ryne over. Running away occurs, but that doesn't seem like the best idea, either. So Ryne approaches. "Was there something I can help you with?" asks the woman. She seems young, maybe only a little older than Alisaie, but her red-rimmed eyes have dark circles beneath that age her even more. This close, Ryne can see just how sad that smile is, too.

It's hard to be afraid now that Ryne's really looking at her. But that doesn't mean she shouldn't be careful. "Um, no," says Ryne. "I was just going for a walk and--" she hesitates a second, hung up on what to admit to. "-- I saw a pixie, so I was curious."

"Did you now?" asks the woman, glancing at the pixie. "Then allow me to introduce you to my friend Sul Nee."

Sul Nee does a flip in the air. "Oh! You're one of Urianger's friends, aren't you? Marylle was just asking about him! Maybe you can help!"

The woman-- Marylle, Ryne supposes, looks at the pixie for a moment, a frown tugging at her lips. But she shrugs, and says, "Indeed, I'm writing about the heroes who saved our world from the light everlasting."

Maybe the lie would be more convincing to someone other than one of those 'heroes'-- an idea that would make Ryne blush if she stopped to think about it for more than a second-- but it helps her come to a decision. Whoever Marylle actually is, she's not here to hurt anyone _this second_ , so it's Ryne's responsibility here to learn as much as she possibly can. "Well, maybe I can help," says Ryne.

"Perhaps," says Marylle. She shuts her eyes, pressing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've heard Master Urianger is quite the scholar. I was wondering what had captured his study now that the sky has been restored."

Well, there's Eden; Ryne knows he's been looking for as much as he can about it. But she very much doesn't want to tell Marylle about Eden, whether she's interested or not. "I'm not sure I could say," she says, after thinking for a moment. "I haven't been to see him in some time." That's true, at least.

Marylle doesn't question it; she nods. "A shame," she says. "But thank you anyway. I suppose I shouldn't inter-- wait." She cocks her head, looking at Ryne more closely, lips pursing into a frown of concentration. "Do I... have we met before?"

Is that what feels so strange, looking at her? Besides just her clearly-dangerous soul. There's something familiar there, and not really in the way that it is when she finds that she knows something that Minfilia knew. "I don't think so?" says Ryne, furrowing her brow. "Perhaps we passed each other at one of the celebrations."

"Yes..." says Marylle, shaking her head and banishing her frown. "Yes, that must be it. Well, I shan't interrupt your walk any longer, but please let me offer you a little token of my thanks for at least trying to help."

Ryne shakes her head. "You don't have to do that, but thank you."

"It's no trouble," says Marylle, at last making a little smile that looks genuine. "I insist." She extends her hand, making a little rotation with it as she rubs her fingers together. In a blink, she's now holding a vivid red anemone. She passes it to Ryne, who takes it with a little blink of surprise. "It's nothing much, but I hope you enjoy it."

The flower looks fresh as if it had been cut just seconds before, its wide petals velvet-soft. "Thank you," says Ryne, looking down at the flower, pinching the stem tightly between her fingers. "I should go put this in some water."

Marylle nods her head, still looking closely at Ryne with her sad, tired eyes. "That's a good idea. Thank you again. Maybe we'll run into each other again sometime."

"Maybe," says Ryne, taking a step back and making a little wave. She waits for Marylle to turn her attention back to Sul Nee before walking briskly but casually back in the direction of the Pendants. As soon as she's out of sight, she starts running. Thancred should still be home, and she needs to talk to him as soon as possible.

Also, she really does need to put the flower into some water.


	2. Echolocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This has always been a seduction.

Unfortunate Incident stares blankly at the blood dripping down her bookshelf. There doesn't quite seem to be enough air here in her library; she hears herself wheeze faintly, trying to get a proper breath. She leans against the wall, sinking down where but moments before Elidibus' mortal shell bled out onto the floor, ignoring the nearby chair. The body and most of what flowed out beneath it are gone, but the spray, oh, that didn't leave with him at all.

She should see how bad the damage is to her books. She should. The corners of her vision are dark, sparkling. She shuts her eyes tight, presses the back of her head to the wall. The sparkles spread, dizzying her further. A distant roar floods her ears, like listening to seashells but inescapable. Her fingers flex, reflexively reaching out, as if they'll find the face of a concerned cat.

Oh. Right. Her cat is gone. Unfortunate's hand thumps limply to the floor, somehow echoing louder than her short breaths.

She feels but barely registers the momentary coalescence of aether nearby into pure astrality, snapping into umbral balance around a familiar shape. A sigh forms itself out of air and sound and bubbles through the air. "I should have known _you_ would be involved in this somehow."

Some part of her mobilizes her lips, her voice, and she forms the words, "I live here. What are _you_ doing here?" She opens her eyes briefly, still seeing stars, and shuts them again.

Soft footsteps on carpet echo painfully through the room. Emet-Selch's voice comes from directly above her now. "Not long after I decided you wouldn't be returning, I felt something happening to Elidibus. He was _very_ quick to reach out and assure me that there was no danger and he'd explain later. Naturally, I thought to look into it. Imagine my surprise at seeing you."

His voice is something for her to focus on. She is so very aware of the sound, of the little layers to it, the complexities of that nasal little whine. So many sounds combine to make what sounds like one-- it feels like she should be able to discern some greater meaning to each of them. All she can hear are the words.

And yet, it helps a little, giving her something to focus on. "I don't know all of the details," she says, the words coming more easily now. "But he found Lotus. Said he was-- investigating. Both other Scions and looking to snoop through my things. Apparently getting here involved seducing Lotus somehow. I guess she caught him afterward? She was... upset. That's when she called me home."

Emet-Selch makes a disgusted sound. "I've been remiss. Elidibus has been working alone for far too long if he's improvising so readily. Plans suit him far better."

Getting easier to breathe now. She blinks slowly, starts to see something amidst the stars. What a thing to anchor herself to. "She was... more upset to discover the reason for Elidibus' specific interest. I can't blame her for that, but to learn I sought you out was a bit... much for her. She... she saw us. You and I, I mean. I don't know what she saw, just that it was recent."

Unfortunate _hears_ rather than sees Emet-Selch pressing his face into his left hand. She blinks a few more times, the bookshelf across from her fading into view slowly. "And the blood?" he asks.

She presses her hands to the wall to try and stand back up, but a wave of dizziness strikes her a few ilms from the ground. That's fine. Sitting is fine. "It's Elidibus'. That vessel's, anyway. Lotus stabbed him. He deserved it, but I _told_ her not to get blood on my books... then she took my cat and left. I don't think she's keeping all this under her hat."

"Well, that explains why he seemed so embarrassed." Emet-Selch sighs the sigh of a man who considers himself the only adult in the room. "But not this... state you're in." He lowers himself to her eye level, setting off a blurring memory in the back of her mind that makes her stomach jolt. He audibly hesitates before he tugs free both his gloves and lets them thump to the ground. He touches her cheek with the back of his fingers. How are they so hot? He's always so cold, even through gloves. He shifts to grasp her chin, turning her to look him in the eye.

She struggles to focus on his face; his frown is clear enough, but even through her glasses he's still too much a blur. With his free hand, Emet-Selch plucks them from her nose, neatly folds the arms shut, and sets them aside on a side table. After, he waves one long finger in front of her face, frowning all the more deeply at whatever it is he sees there. "Whatever happened to _you_?"

"Couldn't breathe," she says after a moment, trying to find some actual explanation and coming up short. "Got dizzy. I needed to sit down. It's been getting easier to see. I might just need time. But something else isn't right. It's like I'm... I'm hearing too much. Like every possible thing around me is echoing. Not-- Echo echoing, reverberating."

Something flickers through Emet-Selch's expression, but Unfortunate can't see it without her glasses, and it's gone almost as soon as she notices. "Close your eyes," he says; she does. "Keep them shut. Don't bother with looking at anything right now."

She doesn't hear the touch of his hands coming, and starts before she realizes he's trying to get her to the chair. Her knees unlock; she catches the faintest grunt of effort as she reaches back to the wall to steady herself. With something only marginally gentler than a shove, Emet-Selch gets her into the room's sole chair, and she lets out a breath as cushioning contacts backside.

Emet-Selch turns and bends to pick up his gloves; Unfortunate hears the slide of leather over skin as he puts them back into place. Aether moves at a dismissive flick of his hand. "That takes care of the blood," he says. "Now, listen for your heartbeat. Focus on that."

He leaves the room while she takes a deep, steady breath. The sound of her heartbeat. She hears the rustle of robes, the hum of aether, her breath loud and present. Other, stranger things: the sound of books leaning against each other, of table pressing to floor. She can _feel_ her heart, but she can't hear it amidst the chaos that vies for her ears. "Why are you helping me?" she asks.

She hears the Ascian open cabinets in the kitchen until he finds whatever it is he's looking for. "Do you think me so devoid of compassion?" He sounds so mild about such a question.

Unfortunate breathes slowly, steadily, still trying to find the sound of her heartbeat. The strangest of the sounds fade into an incomprehensible buzz as she turns herself inward. "You've left me to suffer before. In a worse state than this." Her voice sounds somehow dulled, like it's padded in velvet.

The sound of water running, frigid and clear, curling around the inside of a glass as it fills. "The circumstances were different. Would you have come with me in that moment, if I had asked?"

She leans her head back to rest against the wall. "I don't know. Maybe. The others would have tried to stop you if I had." Underneath it all, she hears a faint but rapid drumbeat. Is that it? She strains her... it can't be ears, not for a perception like this. But she knows no other analogy. The sound of her house standing tall fades into near nothingness.

"In any case," says Emet-Selch, now close to her again. He takes her by the wrist and closes her hand around a cold glass. "This is not the same."

Unfortunate lifts the glass and sips the water. Lucky that she doesn't hear it going down. She does hear her heartbeat now, fast, too fast, but starting to ease. A little slower with each swallow. Her world contracts as she centers herself within her own skin. The sounds remain, but dim, like shutting a heavy door on the room that contains them. Annoying, but it should be manageable until it goes away. She takes another, longer sip of water.

"Have you never experienced that before?" Emet-Selch asks, entirely too casually.

She carefully peels her eyes open, to much less vertigo than before. Emet-Selch is leaning against one of her bookshelves, his face an indistinct blur. With her free hand, she reaches for her spectacles, sliding them back onto her nose. He turns to examine her bookshelves before she can get a clear look at him. "No," she says. "Should I have?"

Emet-Selch runs a gloved finger over the top of a row of books, the claw gently ruffling the pages. He tilts one book outward a couple ilms, pauses, then lets it fall back into place. "I don't know." For a few moments, she waits for him to elaborate, but he says nothing more.

Unfortunate lifts the glass of water and rests it against her forehead. Somehow, it feels warmer against that than her fingers. She lowers the glass and presses the back of her hand to her forehead instead. Some clammy chill-- that makes a little more sense. No matter. "Well. Thank you. But now I need to... Lotus. I need to find Lotus. And stop her."

"Do you?" Emet-Selch turns back to face her, whatever expression he was hiding now replaced by a disdainful frown. He resumes leaning against the shelf, his slouch somehow even more ridiculous in those blackened robes than it ever was in imperial regalia. And that had been pretty ridiculous.

She drains the water and sets the glass aside. "What do you mean?"

One eyebrow arches eloquently. "What is she going to do that you need to stop? How can she possibly impede _you_?" He pinches a nonexistent piece of dust or fluff from one shoulder and flicks it away. "Grant her ire the gravity it is due."

"She'll tell... shit, probably Tataru," says Unfortunate. All right, what would Tataru knowing do? Anything that would stop her work? She folds her arms across her chest, frowning. Tell Krile? Annoying, but solvable. Of course... "The problem is, she's right. I've been lying. Constantly. Nald's crooked ledger, but I've been a shit to her. And you. You're..."

"... not interested in a discussion of petty morality," says Emet-Selch waspishly. "Inevitably, you're just going to rationalize continuing down this same path. And I truly don't care to sit through all your waffling to arrive once more at that point. The only thing that's given you even a little pause has been getting _caught_. Let's not pretend that whatever morals you feel you're violating are of greater import to you than your pragmatism."

Unfortunate stands halfway, then sits down when the vertigo returns at the sudden movement. "Maybe I don't _want_ to alienate all my friends." Not like she's done much to keep them.

Emet-Selch shrugs. "I'm sure you don't." And clearly he knows full well that he doesn't need to say anything more than that. Asshole.

_Don't make a choice that will leave you alone_ , Ardbert had told her, before she had subsumed him. But all of those choices were made long before he had haunted her, and only some of them were hers to make. But here's another of those right in front of her. "Well," she says, rubbing her forehead and suppressing a shiver, "what do _you_ suggest that I do?"

He rolls his eyes at her. "Right now? You're still positively grey, and you clearly haven't got your balance back yet. _I_ suggest you have a nice little lie-down and get some rest. After that, well, I suppose you _could_ try to chase down your erstwhile friend and attempt to either persuade her to your side once more or punish her for her transgressions. Alternatively? Your aether and mine has been separated. By then I will have had the time to look in on Elidibus. Perhaps we should at last set ourselves to the _real_ task at hand."

_He knows_ exactly _what he's doing_ , Unfortunate thinks. And the worst part is that it's going to work. She sighs, and stands again, more slowly than before. The dimensions of the room feel different somehow, as she hears her way to the edges. "I need to do something about the front door," she says. "After that-- would you help me downstairs? I don't think I trust them on my own."

She waits for his nod, and then navigates her way to the front door. Some way of keeping Lotus out... well, a fairly permanent solution occurs to her. Unfortunate fetches one of the spare keys from the closet, and locks the front door. With the key in the door and the lock engaged, she takes her hand from the key and a step away from the door. With only her own aether, she spins a rapid, umbral fire, humming through her nose to help her centre it entirely on the iron lock and key, away from the wooden door.

Unfortunate clenches her left fist, and lock and key both fuse together into a useless lump of metal, holding fast within the door. "That should do," she exhales, returning to the library.

Emet-Selch awaits. He makes an elaborate parody of a bow and offers his arm to her. She takes it, squeezing one hand tight against his wiry forearm.

It's not surprising anymore that he's exquisitely careful in how he walks her downstairs. When she needs to pause to shut her eyes, he steadies her with the brush of a hand. He refuses to look directly at her the whole way down, or up to her loft.

She sighs at the mess of papers by her bed, and unsteadily bends to shove everything into something vaguely resembling a stack back where it belongs. She wavers on her feet when she straightens, brushing her fingers against the wall.

"Just lie down," says Emet-Selch softly, pressing gloved fingers to the small of her back, against the buttons of her dress. "Here." He helps her out of the dress, then presses her down to sit on her bed. Whatever interest he might have in her form, he shows none at all in this moment. He lets her tug her boots off herself, but holds the blanket up for her to get beneath it.

Unfortunate lets out her breath, long and slowly. "Would you..." She uses the cover of removing her glasses to cover another little sigh. "Would you stay? At least until I fall asleep."

He looks down at her, now that she can't see him clearly, of course. But he sits beside the bed, leaning against the bedstand, and takes her hand with his, three sharp claws on his glove brushing the back of her hand. "Oh, very well. So long as you can be _quiet_ about it."

She shuts her eyes. "Thank you." As she drifts off, she can almost imagine fingers drifting through her hair, but that of course, would be nonsense... 


	3. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you give an Ascian a cookie, he's going to expect that you keep them in your house.

Damn the Warrior of Light. Damn her. In repose, her face is unlike in wakefulness, and in this Emet-Selch intends no metaphor. Her glamours faded, the myriad imperfections she hides lay bare before him. The scars that mar her cheeks, her forehead no mere cosmetic slashes to create an air of danger; her nose bent from some unknown break. A cut just below her lower lip.

What remains of her soul flickers, incandescent and thrashing at its own limitations. The mere pain of _existing_ in such a state must be excruciating. This, then, is the effect of Hydaelyn's blessing upon the one so blessed: inexorably holding together a being whose drive to surpass all potentials would otherwise tear her apart. Something of the sight fascinates him, voyeuristic as it may be.

A tendril of gently fluid aether curls around those desperate embers, sliding in and around the umbral clamps pinning her soul in place. Some tension in her sleeping face eases and faint colour returns to her cheeks. He is, after all, not wholly devoid of compassion.

And she's earned a little bit of carrot to go with the stick, no matter how much she enjoys the latter. Truly, this couldn't have gone better if he'd planned any of it.

Except for this most recent... manifestation. He frowns, looking down at her unmasked face. _Damn_ her. Why would she start hearing the depths of all things _now_? Perhaps her soul is only now built up enough? But to come on so strongly today... interference from the aetherial snag, maybe? Possible.

Reconciling the divide between the soul and the person is bad enough at the best of times. The Warrior of Light is in no regard Chrysanthe of Amaurot, but when soul pokes through like bone piercing skin, he finds himself looking for a memory that he will never see there.

He runs gloved fingers through her hair, smoothing the snowy curls. How could he not hate her, for driving the blade of nostalgia so deeply into his heart? But she will serve her purpose, of her own will. Such as it is. And purpose aside, she rarely bores him.

She does writhe so prettily when he parts her flesh, and her blood is so very bold against that pallid skin.

Emet-Selch reaches outward for Elidibus and finds himself rebuffed, told to wait just a little longer. Well, he does not wish to gaze upon this sleeping woman any longer; does not care to recall times long ago when he put a similar person to bed when the sounds of the world would grow too intense for them. That person died an eternity ago.

He rises and trudges away, leaving her to her badly-needed rest.

The library is hardly big enough to be worthy of the name, and yet it's impressive all the same for a collection cultivated by a woman who admitted to being illiterate until near-adulthood, and who's likely got little time to sit and read. Unsurprising: a great deal of thaumaturgical theory, older texts relating to Mhachi black magic, theory both grounded and nonsensical on a number of related subjects. More surprising: a decent collection of novels. She seems to favour genre fiction; stories about mundane adventures and exploration, cozy-looking mysteries and a number of legal thrillers. The pornography is neatly organized on a shelf near the floor, and covers about what he'd expect subject-wise. A few pieces of literary criticism and philosophical texts can be found, and there's a decent number of histories, but she has a disappointing lack of focus on the liberal arts overall.

He supposes it's to be expected that someone in her position would look to more immediately practical reading, but what a waste. He selects a mystery from the shelf, the latest entry in a series he'd been loosely following as Solus and that he's yet to catch up on.

Tucking the book under one arm, Emet-Selch wanders over to the kitchen and rummages through the cupboards. There's a distinct lack of the sorts of pastries that the Warrior always has on hand when he's gone to see her, so he makes do by taking a slice of bread and spreading it with dark berry jam. He leaves the sticky knife atop the jar.

Emet-Selch sits, flips open the book, and reads while he snacks. He's gone through a few slices of bread, crumbs accumulating beneath the loaf, and enough of the book to determine the identity of the culprit (the victim's sister) when he finally feels the twinges of Elidibus' contact. He dog-ears the page and leaves it on the table when he rises.

He hesitates, fingers lingering on the edge. But there's no reason to wait. He shrugs, dusts himself off, and quits this place.

* * *

Elidibus' composure is restored to such a point that Emet-Selch wouldn't have a clue what had happened, except that he already knows. "All is well?" Emet-Selch asks mildly.

"Nominally," says Elidibus. "The vessel I shed was of no importance. A minor inconvenience."

Emet-Selch doesn't bother to hide a smile. After the way Elidibus had been to him about his-- mixed feelings on the Warrior, having caught him in the act is too delicious, really. "I'm impressed. I thought you'd outgrown provoking lovers to violence long ago."

The frown that spreads across Elidibus' lips is really, truly delightful. "I beg your pardon."

"Well of course I undertook an investigation of my own," says Emet-Selch. He conjures a seat beneath himself just as he sits. "And do you know who I found in a state of true panic at the scene of the crime?"

Elidibus sighs. "And what, pray, did the Warrior of Light see fit to tell you?" he asks in precisely the tone one might say 'Yes, of course I'll retrieve the cheese from that mousetrap over there'.

"Oh," says Emet-Selch, leaning on one elbow. "This and that. Something about you embarking on a fact-finding mission that somehow involved having your way with her _roommate,_ of all people?"

The way Elidibus' mouth twitches says everything. "What of it?" he says. "I had suspicions of her that I needed to verify, and this provided access to the Warrior of Light's personal effects. This too was critical to what I sought to discover."

It's everything he could have asked for. "Hmm, yes," Emet-Selch says, half his mouth curled about as high as it will go. "I'm certain that was _much_ more discreet than accompanying her back and simply putting her to sleep and letting her mentally fill in the gaps herself after you'd made your escape. Nothing could possibly go wrong with such a plan. So selfless of you to endure such an _unenjoyable_ burden."

Elidibus folds his arms across his chest, frown turning to an outright glower. "Are you quite done? I was not willing to use methods that could prove volatile upon someone known to be possessed of the Echo. However much I erred in this, at the time I thought it far less likely to be disruptive. Nor did I have thoughts of entertainment in mind. You allow the flesh to preoccupy you far too often, Emet-Selch."

Says the man who just got himself killed over one of those matters of flesh. But no need to belabour the point further. "Hmm. Well, I hope it was worth it. Just what _did_ you hope to learn from that little exercise?"

"It seemed unlikely to me-- still seems-- that the Warrior of Light concocted her notion of resurrecting you and reaching out to us entirely on her own. And so, I have undertaken an investigation of her companions. Halmarut is performing similar inquiries for me on the First. And indeed, the violence of this particular companion's reaction was _most_ revealing, I find. Certainly it was not _these_ worldly companions who pushed her to anything-- and indeed she has proven willing to lie to prevent their discovering her activities. I remain unconvinced that she is not working to another's purpose, but she is, I believe, wholly sincere."

Emet-Selch raises his eyebrows. "Is that all? I strongly suspect Halmarut won't find anything. While her elaborations upon Allagan restoration techniques were a welcome surprise-- just as her managing to defeat me in combat was an _unwelcome_ one, her shifting sympathies very much are not. I've scarcely even needed to cultivate her sense of isolation-- I've only provided her a direction to turn."

The glower turns to a pensive frown. "Perhaps," says Elidibus. "But while I trust your skills, something of this matter sits very ill with me. Even if her intentions are as she says, and even if no other is guiding her actions... something is very wrong here. That she would somehow conclude restoring you is an act of service to Hydaelyn... I mislike this, Emet-Selch."

Ever the worrier. But it may not be wise to dismiss such concerns entirely out of hand. "If you seek my blessing in furthering a search for a subtler influence here, you have it," says Emet-Selch. "But for the moment I've effectively neutralized her as an active threat to our plans. It may be that I'll be able to turn her to something more useful than that. I ask that whatever it is you do _not_ interfere with this work. If there's access that you need-- speak with me first, hmm?"

The concession does seem to mollify Elidibus a little. "Very well. But do not lower your guard with her. Even if she consciously will not act against us, there may still be danger. At worst there is no harm in being cautious."

"Yes, yes," says Emet-Selch. "I'll be careful. I have no desire to repeat the experience of being dead. Now, tell me-- what's the situation with the Ascended? If it will give you some ease, I'll gladly lend you a hand with them. The Warrior is but one woman, not an empire-- she hardly needs the whole of my attention. You need not act alone."

The way Elidibus looks down at him makes Emet-Selch suspect he's narrowing his eyes, which is just a little unfair. He's being _helpful_. "Most of those remaining are set to routine tasks. Halmarut is an exception-- I worry for her. Deudelaphon ran afoul of your former attack dog and was somehow overcome. Halmarut has been inconsolable since. I've sought to keep her occupied, but that may not be enough. I'd not wish to prioritize such a recent loss, but..."

Emet-Selch leans back, making a thoughtful noise. "I cannot promise I'll be able to find her-- the nature of the cycle is such that I must take what I can get. But I'll begin a search for her, and for our other absent comrades."

"Please do," says Elidibus. "This is a task that you're much more suited to than I. Anyone we can find would be a boon."

"Would you like me to speak with Halmarut?"

"After she reports back. Perhaps it will do her some good to know you're bending your skills toward this." Elidibus turns away, pacing in a small circle. "Otherwise, settling the Source back into equilibrium is likely the most critical task at hand-- your work with the Warrior will do well for this, if you can keep her fingers out of everything. Similarly, we can consider what our next target should be once we've achieved a modicum of stability."

This is more like it, seeing Elidibus setting the skeleton of a plan into place. Far better than knowing he's out there improvising and starting brush fires. Emet-Selch rises, letting the chair dissipate. "Excellent. And you-- take a little break. Not for long, of course, but let yourself relax. Everything is under control, hmm? Getting yourself killed is stressful work." He rests a hand on Elidibus' shoulder. "I should know."

Elidibus lets out a long sigh. "Perhaps you're correct. And yet, there's too much to be done. Any rest I take must be brief."

"Better that than nothing," says Emet-Selch, making as reassuring a smile as he can. "On that note, I should take a little, especially if I'm to be combing through souls looking for gold."

A nod. "Very well," Elidibus says. "I'll speak further with you soon. May your search be fruitful, and your... other task productive."

Emet-Selch chuckles softly, and lifts his hand in a short wave. "And you. Ta." With that, he returns to his own space, for some quiet of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see what 5.2 does to my trajectory from here on out...


	4. Projection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone finally asks the question: why are there always tentacles? an answer is not forthcoming.

The night is young, and Chrysanthe is radiant, flitting across the reception hall toward the punchbowl. Other guests stop them on the way, dragging them off into little conversations. Hades smiles from his vantage point against the wall, watching the motion of their hands, the bob of that so-daring blue ribbon that ties the fat chestnut braid they've chosen for their hair this evening. Round their wrist, a carnelian bracelet rotates serenely, almost aglow with the natural shine of the stone.

At another event so many personal touches might be too much; gauche, even. Certainly they go further than Hades ever would for himself. But if anything he's the one who stands out here: this is far from a conservative crowd. He catches sight of glittering lacquer on fingernails, cleverly embroidered robes, splashes of colour on lips. Halmarut plays her part of hostess with her hood thrown back, orchids woven into her hair; her robes are cut to suggest at the shape beneath. 

It's not something he sees often; Chrysanthe after all, however fashion-forward they may be, would never nip in their robes to let them drape and accent the swell of hip, nor place a brooch on their cowl so as to weight it and lower the neckline. Not in public, anyway.

They slip beside him, closing his fingers around a glass. He moves it to his other hand and curls an arm around their waist. The smile he tilts down at them is quiet, personal; they raise on their toes to steal a kiss from his lips. "Are you all right over here?" they ask.

Hades takes a thoughtful sip of the drink, rolling a droplet around on his tongue, savouring the mingling of flavours. Floral, but not cloying or perfumed, backnotes of herbs, something unmistakable-- Halmarut's work, doubtless. "I am. Just watching. Are you managing well?"

"For now," Chrysanthe says, nestling against his body before turning to face the rest of the party. "Do you mind if I stay with you for a while? It's a little quieter over here."

He squeezes them close. "As long as you need."

Together, they linger over their drinks, watching other people socialize. Occasionally other guests drift over, chatting with one or both of them. It's to be expected that people will try to speak with him or Chrysanthe; the coloured masks alone all but require that people come to chat and offer some form of respect. But it's tiresome. This is, of course, the trouble with parties. Everyone just milling around and expecting one another to be somehow _available_. Making _small talk_.

It's like being around at least a dozen of Hythlodaeus at once.

Chrysanthe seems to be doing a little better than he is, but it's always hard to tell; for all that they dislike crowds nearly as much as he does, they handle it very differently. Aural chaos as opposed to visual, he supposes.

They elbow him lightly, turning their head toward the entrance. Hades turns his head in that direction; a few moments after, their absent other hostess makes her way inside. Radiant as ever, Deudelaphon has her hood down, sunny orange-gold hair flowing loose over her shoulders. The lateness is more than understandable; she's quite far along, enough to show even through her robes. Not that her condition's slowed her duties down any, as far as Hades can tell.

Ever the doting wife, Halmarut ends her conversation and flows over to Deudelaphon's side. "She looks so happy," murmurs Chrysanthe. They catch Hades' hand and lace their fingers through his.

"Don't tell me seeing her like that is giving you ideas," Hades says into their hair, chuckling softly. In this, they've always been as one. But it never hurts to tease.

And what a reaction he gets. Chrysanthe goes a little stiff, their mouth turning to a tight 'o'. They swat his wrist lightly. "Don't you dare," they say, a laugh bubbling forth. "I hope _you're_ not getting any ideas. Can you even imagine either of us with a little one?"

"For an afternoon, perhaps," says Hades, catching Chrysanthe's hand. "Which I'm certain will come up. I think we can both manage that long, if they make it worth our while."

"Mm," says Chrysanthe, watching the pair across the room. "I suppose. Well, I wish them the joy of it. Whatever that may be."

With Deudelaphon arrived, Halmarut seems prepared to at last begin showing off the ostensible reason for the gathering. She waves for some clear space in the centre of the room and sets up a small projection matrix. "Dear friends and colleagues," she says, once everything is done to her satisfaction. "I'd like to thank you all for coming this evening. We've all had some fun, so now it's time for me to bore you all with my work." Halmarut pauses, waiting for the chuckles both polite and sincere to die down.

She engages the projector, and the image of a lumpy, tentacled monstrosity appears, wriggling about the floor. "I'm very excited to present to you all the prototype of my latest design in crop fertilization technology. What I've concepted and created here is an ambulatory, autonomous system for both evaluating soil conditions and deploying fertilizer. The vines allow it traction on all terrains and in weather conditions and it photosynthesizes so it requires very little in the way of external nutrients." The creature writhes along the ground until apparently it sights something in need, rears back, and spews forth-- well. Hades takes a moment to be very, very glad that whatever fertilizer it's spewing, it's illusionary.

"When it determines the soil needs additional nutrition, it unleashes a cocktail of fertilizer specifically tailored for local conditions. Now, certain concerns remain, such as the smell of the fertilizer, but these are things we expect to be worked out during subsequent concept phases." Halmarut cheerfully waves at the projection, and begins pointing out various features.

Beside him, Chrysanthe lifts up on their toes to murmur into his ear, "Why are they always tentacled?" They punctuate with a stifled laugh.

"Don't be filthy," he says to them. "Not here, anyway."

"Hmmm, let's put a pin in that one," says Chrysanthe, turning their attention back to the presentation. "I doubt I'll be up to it tonight-- too many people here. But, another time perhaps..."

"I like the sound of that plan."

* * *

For as little as Hades likes crowds, he handles them better than Chrysanthe does. If he truly needed any evidence of this, he need look no further than the way his bonded withdraws deep into their hood, conceals their trembling hands in their pockets, and clings scandalously close to his side the entire way home. That they do this last without regard for who might see is a testament to how, for whatever reason, this evening has proven particularly taxing.

There's something shamefully alluring about it. Knowing them so well now, Hades can in retrospect recognize that Chrysanthe has always shut themselves away like this when the need arose, and has always gone to great lengths to conceal it. The _privacy_ of being permitted to espy them in their distress...

He ushers them through their front door and they peel off almost immediately, mask tossed onto a chair that they then lean over, breathing heavily. Hades goes to fetch a mug and hesitates over it for a moment. He opts for speed rather than quality, and simply conceptualizes it as being filled with steaming hot tea. He stirs in a good dollop of honey and carries it back to Chrysanthe. He lifts one of their hands, curling it around the mug and guiding it to their lips. They slurp it, shuddering quietly.

"It hurts," they exhale, barely audible. "I can't, it's too much." Chrysanthe clutches the tea and slowly, slowly straightens. Bare-faced, the crimson rimming their eyes is stark against skin that's gone ashy. They drain the tea and sink onto the couch, squeezing their eyes shut.

Hades takes the mug away and asks, "Shall I leave you be?" He never can tell what they'd rather he do when they're like this. He supposes his mounting annoyance at that pales in comparison to whatever pain they're in, but that doesn't make it go away.

Chrysanthe shakes their head, then presses the heels of their palms into their eyes. "No," they say. "No. I know your sound. It helps. It's that-- with so many people, I hear _so much_ , and all I can do to still it is try to focus on one or the other a little. But that just drags it out longer. All of those sounds I don't know abrading against me, I... stay with me? Please?"

He sets his mask aside, letting it drop beside Chrysanthe's, then sits on the couch with them. They turn, lying down, settling their head into his lap. He leans back and weaves his fingers into their hair, exhaling. How in the world he ended up being the one to tend to this-- oddly fragile person is beyond him.

Fragile, hah. No, not that. He can _see_ the strain, can see them hold steady through it. Just because they let him see when they start to crack doesn't mean they're _fragile_.

The party has definitely taken its toll on him, too; he can feel himself wanting to be irritated by all this. And, well-- taking care of Chrysanthe isn't his idea of a thrilling capstone to the evening. But their head is warm in his lap, their breath steadying, the faint tremble to their hands stilling. That, he cannot resent.

They reach up, taking one of his hands. "Thank you," Chrysanthe says, holding on tightly. "I know you'd much rather... I. Thank you."

"Oh, hush," he says, brushing a strand of hair from their face. "I'm _here_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for bearing with the delay while i wrote unforgivable porn about 5.2


	5. Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her ride's here.

Unfortunate wakes up alone, just how she likes it. It's-- not quiet, not exactly, but it's something _like_ quiet, here in her home. She can hear-- things around her, like very distant murmurs in a language she doesn't understand. And what an odd sensation that is; when was the last time she didn't understand something being spoken to her? That wasn't some ancient Allagan device? If there are words being spoken, she cannot understand them, and she knows without a doubt that no _person_ is speaking them. But it's distant, and not terribly intrusive. She can ignore it, she supposes.

Her hand rests neatly just above her stomach, on top of the blankets. She's never woken up like that in her life. She rubs her thumb over the back of her hand, where she remembers the pinprick-feel of a metallic claw lightly pressing her skin.

"He did stay," she murmurs to the whispering air. Unfortunate touches a curl of her hair, feels her lips bend into a faint frown. Her glasses rest on the bedstand, the lenses gleamingly clean. He isn't here now. That, she'd be able to tell. So she reaches out, puts her glasses on, and sits up. She stays put like that for a few long moments, mind just blank of any real thought.

Nothing for it but to get up. Nude, she heads down to the lower level and into the bathroom. Scowls and lowers the seat. Then she takes her glasses back off, kicks the faucet from tub to shower, and gets the water going.

It's too hot when she steps in, and she leans her back into the blistering water, hissing at the tangle of heat and force. This is by far better than she's been getting in Ishgard, though to be fair it's better than she gets anywhere, really.

Well, if Emet-Selch isn't here, she's going to have to work out what to do without counting on his presence. That's fine. Better if she doesn't see him right now, anyway. It's awkward. She reaches for a bar of soap, gripping it tightly. Looking at a person and _knowing_ she's going to have sex with them is-- strange. Because it's going to happen. She knows it. _He_ knows it. Mother, but she wants him, wants to wipe that adversarial little smirk off his lips, wants to _not know_ who's going to get pushed too far and bend the other over, dig teeth into flesh-- her soapy fingers trail over her chest, where he has explicitly _not_ left scars.

It's unnatural to think about it in advance, is what it is. Even the handful of people she keeps in touch with who she's been with more than once, it's spur-of-if-not-the-moment-then-at-least-the-evening. Or there's circumstances, like having almost gotten killed, or planning to almost get killed the next day. That sort of thing. Ordinary battlefield fucking. Casual. Comradely.

When's the last time it wasn't? She frowns, scrubbing her skin until it's pinker than just the heat makes it. Before the Sultantree, certainly. After that, she'd started falling in with the Scions and... well. No time for that since. Or inclination, really. It's different, fucking someone who thinks of you as a hero. That she _is_ one is undeniable. But the attitude's different with most people.

And out of all the people she knows and is even a little bit attracted to, who _doesn't_ fall already into the hero worship or casual comradely fuck categories? Aymeric, maybe. He might even be willing. But-- no. They _already_ don't see each other often enough and it's _nice_ unreservedly calling someone a friend. Adding anything else-- not worth however else it might change things, let alone the fact that _politics_ would need to get into it at that point.

She hesitates, bar of soap an ilm from her hair, and puts it down instead. So, definitely not since she found herself on the road to becoming the Warrior of Light. In Ul'dah before that, maybe? She squints into the water, rinsing soap from her body and lifting her hair into the hard spray. No, not really. She'd been busy then, too. Work and studies and very little time for anything or anyone else.

Shit, then. Not since she's left home. She does remember, vaguely, walking out regularly with some nice girl with a forgettable name, and feeling like it was serious at the time. So she would have been, what, fifteen? Sixteen? Half a lifetime ago in truth, and not just for metaphor. The blacksmith's son, a few years later, and people encouraging the two of them to settle down together, before the sky went afire and the moon fell. But that had only been serious out of obligation.

When she and Emet-Selch have sex, be it she bending him over and penetrating him with one of her clever little toys, or he pinning her to a wall and slashing her chest so that blood melds with gasping sweat every second he's inside her, it is not going to be casual. Nothing of any of the moments they've shared has been casual.

An urgent need roils through her body; she shoves herself away from the shower-stream and bends over the side of the tub as far as she can, yanking up the toilet lid and seat. She dry-heaves violently; she has nothing to give up to the nausea that clutches her. Her eyes sting with their own dampness by the time she finishes, acid sourness clinging to her mouth. Unsteady, she rinses with the shower-water, heedless of the heat as she swishes it through her mouth and spits it at the drain.

Yes. Better he's not here. It would be awkward. Probably best to head to the Stones then, once she's gotten something to eat. Maybe she can head Lotus off at the pass before someone does something asinine like cut her off from heading back to the First. Ugh. And she should brew up some preventatives, too. Just because she hasn't bled out her cunt in something like a year doesn't mean she needs to be stupid about it. Simple enough to get that going, too.

Unfortunate shuts the water off, taking a deep breath in the steam. She _should_ have the silphium resin she needs; that doesn't seem like something she'd let herself run out of. The wild carrot, too? Once dry, she strides out of the bathroom and goes to dig through her reagent cabinets. Yes, there's the silphium, the wild carrot, salts, powdered umbral ice and air crystals, a few other odds and ends. She starts a distillation cycle and soaks her plant matter in alcohol while the rest of that goes.

Good enough; she doesn't need to keep an eye on that for a while. She heads upstairs to put some coffee on-- and notices the bread left out, lying in a pile of crumbs. She pokes the cut end. Definitely less fluffy from however long it's been exposed to the air. Then she sees the sticky, jam-covered knife. And then the book. With the dog-eared page.

"I'm going to throttle that man," growls Unfortunate. She tosses the knife in the sink, wraps up the bread, and puts the jam away. The book she leaves. Coffee in hand, she sighs and heads back downstairs to check on the distillation.

It doesn't take long for the concoction to finish, and she ends up downing the syrupy liquid without bothering to bottle it first; that should hold her for the next couple months. Still no sign of Emet-Selch poking his head in, so Mor Dhona it is. She takes her best guess at the weather and throws on a light canvas coat over her dress. As an afterthought, she pulls her hair back with a ribbon before she grabs her second-best staff.

Unfortunate focuses on the aetheryte in Revenant's Toll and starts pulling in aether. She lands to find the day gloomy as ever, with a bit of a nippy breeze whirling through the square. Seems promising. She slips through the Seventh Heaven uneventfully and back into the Stones. Now just to find Tataru and head off whatever Lotus plans to do at the pass.

Orrrr Lotus and Eox could be right there already, talking to Tataru and Krile both. Unfortunate tiptoes back to the door, reaching for the latch.

"Don't you fucking _dare_ \--" Lotus sees her before she can make her escape. Unfortate lingers on the latch a moment before letting her hand drop.

Only one thing for it, then. Unfortunate plasters a smile on and saunters into the common area. Estinyan wanders out from behind the bar and rubs himself up against her legs. "What's all this about?" she says as casually as possible. She's just been overreacting. What could possibly go wrong? She's _Unfortunate fucking Incident_. She bends and pets her cat. "So that's where you've gotten off to."

"You're just in time," says Tataru a little too brightly. "Lotus was just telling us something very strange that had happened to her. You're here to explain, aren't you?"

"Well, I'm not sure what she's told you," Unfortunate says, picking up her cat. He starts purring and cuddling close to her. Poor baby's had an even more stressful night than she has.

"Come on, Unfortunate," says Eox, waving Lotus to silence the second she opens her mouth. "We've all done dumb things. Remember the time I fed so much light-polarized aether to those lab rats that they grew wings and then they got out? It'll be okay. We'll work it out. We found Peaches and most of Cream, didn't we?"

Unfortunate drags her nails through Estie's fur, skritching him up the neck. She shuts her eyes and lets words assemble themselves in her mind. "You know," she says softly. "I've had just about enough of people acting like I don't know what I'm doing. Like I haven't given things due consideration. Yes, Tataru. I rebuilt an Ascian's soul. Because I need him alive. Because _Hydaelyn_ needs him alive. I don't know what he's getting out of it besides his life, and I honestly don't care. I need to... I need to learn more about how Zodiark was made. It, he was made to fulfill a purpose. A real purpose, one that hasn't gone away. Just blindly cutting through Ascians is going to leave a gaping wound at the heart of the world that Hydaelyn is insufficient to solve. Lotus. Eox. Krile. Surely at least one of you can feel that she's-- she's still weakened. That can only get worse. They way _out_ requires correcting the flaws of Zodiark's creation." She puts the cat down and digs the heels of her hands into her eyes, glasses shoved up her face. "Look. It's not like I made anything worse than it was before I killed him. I don't care if you don't trust me, but I have to do this. Because this is something _only I_ can do. And I believe that Hydaelyn has placed her faith in me, that I can thread this needle. Her Word no longer guides us. But I am still her hand. Please."

The others just look at each other in silence. And look. And look. And look. Eventually, Krile sighs. "It _is_ hard to trust you when you make it sound as though you'll just go ahead with it regardless of what anyone else says. I _don't_ care for ultimatums, especially where Ascians are involved. The other Scions' corporeal aether _has_ been stabilized, so you're not bringing them to direct harm-- but that says nothing of the indirect harm to anyone else."

Lotus holds her arms across her chest, glowering up at Unfortunate. "I mean, what, it's not like I can stop you, can I? Fancy it up however you want now, but the long and short of it's that you just don't give a damn about anyone besides yourself and fucked what happens to them along the way. I'm not going to lie down and roll over for that. Maybe you're right about this bullshit. Maybe. But maybe you could have said one damn thing to literally anyone before just rampaging through people who _thought_ they were your friends like you're a runaway minecart."

"I didn't mean for--" Unfortunate hesitates, then errs on the side of discretion. The _specifics_ of last night are certainly no one's business, and she doubts Lotus has given anyone the blow-by-blow. "What happened to happen. And what I said was... look, it was bad. I should have said something to you, if for no other reason than so you could protect yourself. _That_ never occurred to me. I'm sorry. And I don't know how to fix that. If it can be fixed."

"Well, that's a great fuckin' way for you to not have to do anything about it," says Lotus.

Unfortunate walks past everyone to plant her hands on the edge of the bar, just leaning over it. She lets out a breath. "This is too important for me to stop. This isn't _about_ me. It really, really isn't. I should have told you. I should have. But I _see_ , I _hear_ the shape of how things are _wrong_ , and I can't do nothing. I can't. I don't even know what stopping looks like right now. I mean, I already brought him back. I'm _not_ going to leave him to his own devices; that _will_ make things worse. So I don't... I don't know what... I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Lotus' disgusted noise is articulate enough.

"I can't believe you didn't say anything. I'm not gonna beat a dead chocobo about what happened with Lotus, or the Ascians, but _c'mon_ ," says Eox. "So I couldn't be there to see you fix that soul. But what made you think I wouldn't want to know _everything_ about how you did it? Were you fishing through the Lifestream somehow? How's that work with fracturing it with white auracite? _Nobody_ raises the dead."

"Didn't make it to the Lifestream," says Unfortunate to the bar counter. "Had a closer vacuum. A little like the dark crystal principle they use to hold onto a form. I just caught the pieces. Managed to put them together using some Allagan technology and a--" she hesitates. Just illusion and memory. But still. "-- A significant external aether source. I don't know that it's reasonably replicable. It's definitely not safe to repeat."

Eox taps his fingers together. "Hmm."

Unfortunate lifts her head just in time to see Tataru's eyes narrowing. "Just to be clear," Tataru says, "when you say Allagan technology, do you mean the equipment that you had me source?"

This cannot be going anywhere good, but there's no way out. With the delicacy of trying to reach into a bear trap, Unfortunate hedges, "And that I paid for, yes."

Tataru plants her hands on her hips, undeterred. "Not the point. None of that was easy to locate. Unfortunate Incident, you had me use Scion resources for the purposes of your, your _scheme_ without so much as an explanation. To bring back an _Ascian_! It doesn't matter how good of a reason you have for doing that, not even Urianger misappropriated resources when he-- did what he did. I haven't forgotten how upset that made you, either, even if you have."

"I. N-no, I haven't, but--" Unfortunate tries to work her way through some sort of reasonable thing to say to that. But she can't, really.

"If you believe this is the right thing to do," Tataru says, "then I'm not going to try to stop you. But!" She raises a stubby finger. "I hope you realize that the Scions can't offer financing to work that involves cooperating with Ascians. I'm officially suspending your stipend until such time as it becomes clear that we can support your activities once again."

"What." Of all the things Tataru might have done, _that_ was not one Unfortunate had considered. "But I need that money for groceries and lawn care. And a locksmith."

Tataru waves her finger sharply. "One more word out of you and I'll start charging you rent for your room here in the Stones. Which I should be doing anyway for as little as you use it. If you're right about all this, then we can talk about restoring your salary."

"Yes ma'am." Unfortunate sags, letting out a breath. There's no possible way this day could get any worse.

From behind her, by the door out, the sound of one gloved pair of hands clapping breaks the silence. The door, Unfortunate is quite sure, never opened. "How _marvelous_ to witness such an accord being forged. An absolutely heartwarming sight. You truly do have a way of bringing people together, Hero."

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good timing on releasing this where unfortunate actually does some alchemy on the day she's confirmed as 40th best (or at least most productive) alchemist on excal~


	6. Someone Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is, for once, someone else to do it. Not that anyone's happy about it.

Unfortunate heaves a sigh and straightens. She hears before she sees the varying levels of alarm that was through the other Scions, though she's not exactly sure how she recognizes it. Maybe if she doesn't turn to face him he won't be there. Stupid. She ilms her way around to face the door.

Emet-Selch has at some point scared up the imperial regalia he'd been wearing back on the First, rather than showing up in the Ascian robes he'd been wearing lately with her. Has he been dressing up to see her? Or dressing down? She's probably overthinking things. At least she can see how to get this outfit _off_ , for all its layers, which is more than she can say for the other robes. Oh, no, now is not the time to be thinking about that. Not even a little bit.

"I suppose I should introduce you all," Unfortunate says, trying to hold back another sigh and failing badly. "Lotus, Eox, Krile, Tataru, this is... this is Emet-Selch. The Ascian."

He slinks his way further into the room. "Oh, don't sound so enthusiastic," he says. "I'm not sure my heart can take it. Ah. Wonderful." He catches sight of Tataru's Boilmaster and beelines toward it. He slides a mug off the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee, almost upending the pot in the process of getting it all out. He sprinkles a hint of sugar into it and swirls the mug rather than bothering to stir. The whole production puts him close enough to Unfortunate that she's even more aware of his presence. That he's looking at her expectantly doesn't help, either.

Fine. She finishes the introduction. "Emet-Selch, these are Lotus, Eox, Krile, and Tataru. What brings you by?"

"I _thought_ we had an agreement to meet," he says, as if she was going to wait around for him to show up. He slurps his coffee noisily. "When you were nowhere to be found, I was forced to go looking. Or do you not truly want to-- what was it you said, learn more of how Zodiark was made?" They'd might as well be alone here, for all the attention he directs at the others. Emet-Selch's sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes focus on one person, and only one person.

Unfortunate looks away. "I still have responsibilities," she says. "Despite what some people might think, I'm not about to neglect them so easily." Especially after putting her foot in it. "Well, you've reminded me. I'll be home soon, so you can go now."

One styled eyebrow arches. "Before I've finished my coffee? Perish the thought." Emet-Selch takes another pointed sip, then glances over at Lotus. He sets his mug aside and bends in a deep bow. "Do permit me to extend my profoundest apologies on behalf of my colleague. His lack of regard for social niceties led to a deep wrong being perpetrated upon you, for which there is no excuse. I assure you that your chastisement has very clearly impressed this upon him."

Lotus narrows her eyes at him for a good long moment. "You don't get to apologize for something your _friend_ did," she says. Then she sighs. "But I appreciate the thought, for what it's worth."

Emet-Selch tilts his head toward her. "Your appreciation is most generous," he says, "given the circumstances. I can ask no more of you than that." He picks up the coffee mug again and lifts it to his lips.

"You should put on another pot," says Unfortunate distantly. She blinks, shaking her head a few times. Everyone else feels almost... frozen around her, or trapped in molasses, barely moving. Perhaps they're just taken aback. Eox and Krile both watch Emet-Selch with modestly perturbed frowns, the mystery of his presence furrowing both their brows. Well, if they have a better idea as to what ulterior motive he has, Unfortunate has no idea what it is. Better if she were someplace else.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The coffee," Unfortunate says hoarsely. "If you're going to pour yourself the last of it, you should put on another pot."

"Oh, for the love of--" sighs Emet-Selch. He points at the Boilmaster and then snaps his fingers, once. "There. Happy?"

That releases something in the air, at least, for Tataru manages to wrench her gaze from the Ascian and back to Unfortunate. "You _do_ still intend to try to bring the others home, don't you?"

Frankly, Unfortunate would have preferred she'd remained shocked. "What do you take me for, Tataru?" she says sharply. "I'm not going to leave them to die when there's no one else for them. Not that there's much I _can_ do yet. If you're _going_ to not trust me, at least think about how you're not going to trust me."

"You've changed," says Tataru.

Unfortunate turns. "I'm doing the same things I've always done. Maybe I'm just tired of shutting up about how I feel about it."

"Unfortunate--" Eox starts to say something, but the front door opening cuts him off before he gets any further than that.

Everyone, Scion and Ascian all, look toward the door to see a lanky Garlean striding quickly in. "Pardon the interruption, but I come bearing urgent news." It takes a moment for the man's name to rise out of Unfortunate's memory-- Maxima, yes, that's it. The one with the glasses, the decent one. He stops dead when his gaze falls upon Emet-Selch. "I-- your... your Radiance...?"

"At last someone offers me my due," says Emet-Selch, half his mouth twisting into a smile. He slurps his coffee triumphantly. "I shan't trouble you to kneel. Simply consider me as you would any former Emperor restored to vitality standing before you, and go about your business." One gloved thumb rubs at the side of his mug as he watches Maxima, a bland curiosity in his eyes.

It _is_ a little bit funny to see the normally crisply-composed Maxima cough to hide a sputter. "I don't understand what's going on here," he says, looking to Unfortunate. "It's-- good to see you, but..."

She makes something that she hopes resembles a smile. "It's a long story," she says. "I don't think there's any good explanation for him that you'll want to hear. Uh, shit. I guess in short, yes, that is the first Emperor, yes, he got better, no, he'd _better_ not be coming back to do any Emperor-ing, uhh, I'm not sure how much more you want your worldview upset."

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes, and pours himself more coffee.

Still eyeing the Ascian, Maxima says, "Yes, well. Perhaps those details can wait. I do come bearing urgent news. I see several people with whom I have not been formally introduced. I am Maxima, former Garlean ambassador. I remain here in Eorzea under the auspices of Commander Aldynn, offering what counsel I can in the hopes of resolving the present conflict with the Empire."

Introductions get passed around; Unfortunate keeps one eye on Emet-Selch, who seems to be regarding the proceedings with vague disinterest. She sighs and gets a cup of coffee for herself, pouring in maybe too much cream. She pauses, offering a cup up to Maxima, who shakes his head.

"Now then," says Maxima crisply. "As you may have heard, the imperial capital is in turmoil, and a sizable portion of the Garlean forces have been recalled from the Ghimlyt Dark. With their numbers so greatly diminished, the main host of the Alliance has withdrawn, leaving the Ala Mhigan Resistance to keep watch over the border. And it is there we have welcomed a most unexpected visitor who claims that this de-escalation may belie growing dangers and unforeseen threats. Commander Aldynn has arranged for an impromptu meeting to discuss these revelations. He has also requested a representative of the Scions attend as well, though it was clear to whom he wished I extend this invitation."

"That's a shame," says Unfortunate around the lip of her mug. "Because I'm no longer on the Scions' payroll. Fortunately, I have some very capable friends who _are_ still permitted to represent the Scions who I'm sure will be more than happy to attend." She waves her free hand expansively over at Lotus and Eox.

"What?" says Maxima.

"What?" says Eox.

"What," says Lotus.

Unfortunate leans her head back. "They are highly capable, possessed of the Echo if that is what you need, and I trust them with my life. Such as it is. Worked with Raubahn, too; I imagine he won't be thrilled to not have me but he'll be fine with them."

Lotus spins on her. "You don't get to volunteer me for this sort of bullshit," she says, glaring.

"I'm not the one volunteering you," says Unfortunate. "I mean, verbally I am. But, well, you've neatly had me excised from the organization for the time being. I _can't_ go as a representative of the Scions. Plus, do you really want _him_ anywhere near current Garlean anything? So: who else is going to do it? _Is_ there anyone else?"

"You know, if I cared to, I could simply go there any time I pleased. You're in no position to stop me," says Emet-Selch, looking no more inclined to move than he did five minutes ago.

Unfortunate frowns. "You know, that actually _is_ a really annoying line to have someone use on you. I should apologize for that." She doesn't. "Anyway, stay here if that's what you choose. But the simple fact is that someone's going to have to do it. And I don't think there is anyone else right now. Perhaps it will give you a better appreciation for my position here."

"Menphina's tits, what an asshole," mutters Lotus.

It doesn't hurt as much to hear as it would have even a day before. "Maybe I am," says Unfortunate. "But no matter how important this is, I've got more important work to be doing. You're more than capable." Much as it might be nice to head over to Gyr Abania and see Raubahn and untangle whatever hassle he's got going right now. Might even be possible to get some morally unambiguous dick out of it, and Raubahn's is _quite_ nice. But, no. She can't let herself get distracted.

"You didn't even _ask_." Lotus takes half a step toward Unfortunate, but stops herself.

Unfortunate cocks her head, blinks, and sighs. "People don't usually ask me," she says. "I guess it never occurred. I mean, it wouldn't have been a real question if I'd asked. It's never a real question. Better if nobody pretends."

"If you're a _giant asshole--_ "

"Hey, come on you two," says Eox, stepping in between them, reaching up to wave his hands in a vaguely soothing motion. "I don't think now's a great time to hash out how everyone hates their job in different ways. I'll go take care of this meeting, you don't have to come if you don't want to, Lotus. Sorry, Maxima, you kind of picked a bad time. If there's such a thing as a good one."

Krile pinches the bridge of her nose. "I'll attend as well. I'm not as versed in the affairs of the city-states as our comrades, but with Unfortunate's abstention in particular, I see no reason for our delegation to go undermanned."

Looking around the room, Lotus sighs. " _Fine_ , I'll go. But if this turns out to be something ugly, I want hazard pay."

"Done," says Tataru, surprisingly easily. Well, she _does_ have all that extra room in the budget now.

Evidently seeing possibly his only opportunity to actually get out of here with some Scions, Maxima pounces. "Then we must make for the Ala Mhigan Quarter with all haste."

Which is apparently a cue for Emet-Selch to drain his coffee and set his mug aside on the bar counter. "If all of that bickering is done, then let us be off as well. Your abode will suffice for a starting place. Come." He extends a hand to Unfortunate.

She starts to object, being more than capable of getting home on her own. But she shrugs, and lifts her own mug, drinking it down slowly. Lotus catches Unfortunate's eye and steps close. Voice pitched low, she hisses, " _Him_? Really?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," says Unfortunate. She puts the empty coffee cup down, and gives it a little shove in the direction of the sink.

"Like hells you don't," says Lotus, stepping back. "I hope it's worth it. I fucking well hope it is."

"C'mon, Lotus," Eox says, halfway to the door. He wiggles his staff almost but not quite threateningly. Lotus withdraws.

Unfortunate sets her hand in Emet-Selch's; his cool gloved fingers close around the back of her hand. "Do give Raubahn my regrets," she says. "I'd have liked to have seen him." But a grunt from Lotus is all the response she gets. She shrugs, and glances back to Tataru. "I'll check in again when I head back to the First."

Tataru sighs. "Oh, all right. Just-- please be careful, Unfortunate."

"I'm always careful," says Unfortunate, and she follows the Ascian into a swirl of black and violet aether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	7. Equal Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the First, neither Ryne nor Thancred have been idle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm told you should eat before reading this one.

The flower never dies. Not that Ryne wants it to, and she keeps the anemone in fresh water, even going so far as to change it regularly. But she _has_ had cut flowers before, and they never last all that long. They show signs of it too, petals wrinkling, leaves starting to fall, that strange, rubbery quality. This flower remains as fresh as the very moment Marylle handed it to her.

Thancred mistrusts it. But it's only a flower. Even if it came from what was very likely an Ascian. Not that she'd seemed to show it in any way. Both she and Thancred had kept an eye out for Marylle after that encounter, and while she'd been in town she hadn't been that hard to find. Her chats with Sul Nee somehow evaded their best attempts at eavesdropping, and the rest of her activities had been, well, normal. They both spotted her at various times over at the Hortorium, and there hardly seemed anything sinister at all about the way she walked from plant to plant, brushing her fingers over fronds and leaves, occasionally bending to murmur things at seedlings. The questions she asks of the scholars there seem to be on the subjects of fertilizers and hybrids and all sorts of planty things that Ryne knows nothing about.

When she discreetly asks Evelie about Marylle, she's told the mysterious maybe-Ascian introduced herself as a botanist from Eulmore.

The only other place Ryne spots Marylle is through the window of the Second Serving, sitting alone over coffee biscuits and looking like she's about to cry. It leaves Ryne feeling like a coward, that she never approaches her.

When she sits in her room at night, staring at the undying crimson anemone, Ryne finds herself wishing Unfortunate was here. She's not quite sure that the Warrior of Darkness would have any good advice-- but thinking back on her odd fixation with Emet-Selch, Ryne figures she'd at least _understand_. Thancred absolutely would not.

After no sightings of Mayrlle for a few days, Ryne and Thancred plot over breakfast. "Do you think she found what she was looking for?" she asks him, dripping honey onto a slice of buttered toast. She wrinkles her nose as she watches him pour himself a big mug of coffee and just gulp at it like that. At least it's better coffee than he used to buy.

"It's possible," says Thancred. He stabs an egg yolk with a strip of crispy bacon, swirls it around, and crunches the bacon down. "She was elusive enough when she cared to be; there's no telling what she might have discovered. But there's one other possibility." He cranks pepper into his oozing yolk.

Ryne takes a moment to frown over her waffle, before she decides on the jar of strawberry compote. She spoons strawberry chunks into each crevice, then globs some whipped cream on top. After a thought, she adds juice from the compote on top of the cream. "It's that-- she's decided she won't find what she's looking for here. Right?"

Thancred lifts a bit of egg and runny yolk onto his toast. "Precisely. Which begs the question: where _will_ she find that information?"

She clears her throat with a big gulp of coffee and goes in for more toast. "She was asking a pixie about Urianger when I first found her. We-- we should go warn him!"

"We should," says Thancred, crunching down more eggy toast. "I'm going to ask you to do that; I have a few more angles I'd like to follow up on here and in Eulmore. She said she was from there-- it might be possible that she actually spent time there. Il Mheg should be safe enough for you."

"Are you sure?" Ryne asks, between bites of waffle. "If you think it would be better to come along, I'm sure Urianger would love to see you."

"Doubtless he would," says Thancred, and Ryne isn't entirely sure if he's being sarcastic or not. "But we're lagging behind her. We need to cover as much ground as possible if we're to learn this Marylle's game."

Is sending her to Il Mheg by herself a sign that he's taking this extra seriously, or not very seriously? Or does he just not want to deal with the pixies? Ryne pauses to finish her slice of toast. No matter what, it's important that Urianger know what's going on, so maybe she shouldn't worry about that right now. "All right," she says, nodding vigorously. "I'll stop and buy some shortbread for him, too. That way it'll look like I have an excuse to visit!"

Thancred nods. "A reasonable plan. We'll meet here again in at most three days; should we not hear from each other by that time, we'll treat it as an emergency and move to contingency plans."

He's treating it at least a little seriously, then. "All right!" says Ryne, giving her palm a little punch. But waffle first. You should never start something important with an unfinished waffle.

* * *

Ryne lands her rented amaro outside of Urianger's house in the care of a pixie who promises to not take her _too_ far away when they play. She takes her little box of shortbread, tugs her top straight, and heads around front to let herself in. "Urianger!" she calls when she doesn't see him right away. "Are you in?"

"Ryne?" she hears, muffled, from further inside the house. "Pray, join me in the kitchen."

She picks her way through the cluttered front sitting room and into the back and wends her way through the halls of the Bookman's Shelves until she reaches the large kitchen. This place must have had a lot of servants once. Now, it just has Urianger, sprinkling sparkling sugar onto a square of pastry. He then picks up a heavy rolling pin and leans into it, flattening out the square into a big rectangle.

"Oh," says Ryne. "Are you baking? I brought you shortbread. I hope it's not going to be too much." She sets the box down on the counter, just out of Urianger's way.

Urianger shakes his head, folding the dough into thirds and giving it another good flattening with his rolling pin. "Nay, nay. 'Twill go marvelously with my morning tea. My most heartfelt of thanks. But surely thou didst not come to see me simply to bring a gift of biscuits." He frowns over the dough, measuring it out with his fingers and then rolling it out flatter.

Ryne taps the tips of her index fingers together, wrinkling her mouth up. "Noo, it's true, I didn't. It's important, actually. The other day, I ran into a woman in the Crystarium. She was asking after you. Said she was writing something about the... heroes that had saved the world."

"Curious, but not troubling unto itself," says Urianger. He picks up a sharp kitchen knife and trims the dough into a smooth square. "Thus, there must be more to your concern than this. I pray you, do share what drew your eye about this woman."

"Well, two things really," says Ryne. She leans against the counter, peering at the dough. "When I first noticed her, she was talking to a pixie. It seemed like she'd been talking to them about you. The other, well, it was her soul. It wasn't usual."

Urianger carefully folds the dough inward on itself, pinching it up into a shape like a flower. "I had heard some whispers amongst the fae about one taking an interest in me. In truth, I merely thought it a passing fancy. Yet they were acting at the behest of another?"

Ryne nods a couple times, looking up at him. "Yes. And her soul was-- I've never seen anything like it before, except that it was a little like two others. Emet-Selch's-- with all sorts of spiderwebs reaching out and reaching _in_. But it wasn't nearly as, well, _big_ as his was. Or even like yours. More like someone else from here. And it was a little like Unfortunate's, but only after she defeated Emet-Selch. It's like there was _more_ there than there ought to be normally, building it up. Urianger, I think she might have been an Ascian, one of the ones that Emet-Selch mentioned, that was reborn."

"I see." He lifts the dough up and arranges it in a greased cake tin, then carries it over to sit near the oven. He dusts off his hands and goes to wash them. "'Tis possible. Though I cannot fathom the intentions of such a one. What was it she sought to know of me?"

"Just what you'd been working on lately," says Ryne. "I didn't tell her anything, and she seemed okay with that. But, um, there's one part I didn't mention to Thancred. She seemed to know me, or at least she asked me if we'd met. She seemed-- bothered by the thought. I don't think she was lying or anything."

He leaves the dough behind and guides her out into the hall. "If I have learned but one thing regarding Ascians," Urianger says, "It is that even when they speak the truth, their own designs remain paramount. It is not only Emet-Selch who hath put this to my mind, though his honey'd tongue be the most recent. I realize that is cold comfort in the face of an Ascian's dread intention." Back out in the sitting room, he clears books off a seat and waves her to sit down, before doing the same for a chair for himself.

Squirming in her seat, Ryne admits, "It wasn't scary. She... she seemed so sad, actually. Even when I peeked at her on her own."

Urianger peers closer at her, and he sighs. "I cannot deny that their kind seems to goad one to unwise decisions. But we must needs ascertain what this particular one of their number wishes-- both of myself, and of you."

Shaking her head, Ryne says, "We couldn't figure out anything more than that. She gave me a flower, to thank me for my help. An anemone. It's still alive, somehow. Other than that, she just seemed to be talking to the botanists about plants-- she told them she was one-- and drinking coffee alone."

"Permit me a moment," says Urianger, rising and moving to sort through his bookshelves. "What colour might this flower have been?"

"Red," says Ryne, picturing it in her mind's eye. "Bright, deep red."

She's waiting for him to find whatever book might make sense of that question when a pixie flits through the door. "Urianger! You've a lady caller coming to visit! You never told us you had a sweetheart. Oooh, I should pull your hair and hide your shoes for trying to hide a thing like that!"

He turns, eyebrows raising. "I've withheld nothing of the sort. What manner of lady might this be?"

The pixie plants hands on their hips. "Skinny. Mortal. Sul Nee came ahead and told us that she belongs to _them_ and none of us should bother her, and where's the fun in _that_!"

Ryne gasps. "Sul Nee! That's the name of the pixie she was speaking with when I met her!"

"Then it seems we shall have our opportunity to discern her intentions sooner than either of us anticipated," says Urianger. He turns back to the pixie. "Indeed, it is unlikely that this woman is friend to me or mine. I would ask that if aught should go awry with whatever encounter this woman seeks, carry word unto the king."

The pixie's wingbeats still for a moment and they frown mightily at Urianger. When he doesn't budge, they say, "Oh, all right. But you'd better share some of that lovely cake you're baking when it's ready."

"I would not even for a second think to exclude you," says Urianger. He returns to his seat, arranges his skirts, and watches the door.

Despite everything, Ryne can't help but be surprised when Marylle lets herself into the foyer, knocking sharply on the door three times as she passes. She's dressed a little more practically than before, in a brown dress with a sturdy leather over-corset. Her eyes widen a little when she sees Ryne, but then she looks right past, settling her gaze on Urianger. "Please, forgive my intrusion," she says. "I hope that I've not come at an inopportune moment." Now she looks to Ryne, more composed. "And may I say what a pleasure it is to see you again, my young friend-- though I fear I forgot to ask your name at our last meeting."

After a glance at Urianger, Ryne takes a breath. "I'm Ryne. It's... it's good to see you again, too."

"Nay, the time is meet," says Urianger. He rises and makes a short bow to Marylle. "Ryne hath been apprising me of thine interest. I find myself most curious as to the nature of it. What manner of text might an Ascian seek to pen?"

Her face doesn't change enough to betray the right kind of surprise. Instead, Marylle cocks her head and asks, "A what, sorry?"

Ryne relaxes her vision and lets it slip into watching the flow of aether all around. There's Marylle's soul, dark earthy brown, folding and pinching in on itself, packed in tightly. And sprouting through, less subtle than before, pulsing violet-black roots. Emet-Selch had sprouted crystals of such a shade, harder to discern from his own being. Something about the sight of those roots makes Ryne want to be sick. She swallows and holds it in; there's only one thing that could mean. She rises, hands balling into fists. "We know you're an Ascian, Marylle!" she says thinly. "I can _see_ it in your soul!"

Slowly, Marylle turns her head and looks at Ryne, staring for long enough to make Ryne shiver. "I see," she says. "Is that the power of the Oracle of Light? Doesn't matter, I guess." 'Marylle' shrugs. "I've done you a disservice in lying to you. For my own safety, you must understand. I am not here to do harm." She rubs her face with her hand and exhales, her shoulders sagging. "Let's do this, then."

The Ascian straightens, dusts herself off, and slowly draws two fingers through the air in front of her face, from forehead to chin. In their wake, a crimson tree flares to life, its branches framing her eyes. "Yes," she says. "I am an Ascian. You could call me Halmarut."

As the glyph lights and then fades, those roots pulse all the more intensely. Ryne tries to discreetly look at Halmarut's face, as if she'll find something somehow more sinister there than she did before. But all she looks like is a sad, tired lady, not old enough to be that sad or that tired. But of course if she's an Ascian, she's definitely old enough to be so sad.

Urianger rubs his chin, looking down at her. "Very well then, Mistress Halmarut. If thine intent is to do no harm, what is't?"

Halmarut sighs. "I'm no good at all at spy work. Since I'm talking to you, I'll be straightforward. I'd like to know what you've been working on since Emet-Selch was killed. If you'd like to know why, well, so would I. I'm afraid I was never made privy to that."

"Thou canst not simply expect me to give thee what thou wish'st."

"No," says Halmarut. "Not at all. You'll notice that reaching out to you wasn't my first choice. But I'm no covert actor, and neither, you may have noticed, are the fae. So I came to ask nicely." She pushes a strand of hair from her face. "It seemed like the best option. I can't very well return empty-handed and, what. Am I supposed to fight you or something? Just for a chance to pry through your papers? Please. I don't want to die. There's only one thing that could make me raise my hand in violence to one of you lot, and blessedly, that is not yet His will. So here I am. Maybe we can work something out?"

Thancred's taught Ryne a lot about how to spot when people are lying, and she doesn't see any of those signs here. Of course, Halmarut could still be trying to deceive in some other way. Ryne chews her lower lip and looks over to Urianger.

He's frowning, arms folded across his chest. "What couldst thou possibly have to offer in exchange?"

"Tit for tat," says Halmarut. "Information."

"What wouldst thou share?" Urianger asks. He still has a stern look on his face, but Ryne can hear the note of interest easily enough. She bites harder on her lip.

Halmarut clutches her skirt, then relaxes her hands. "Do we have an agreement?"

Urianger makes a low noise in the back of his throat. He peers closer at Halmarut, as if that might somehow shake deceit out of her. Perhaps it might; she certainly doesn't look all that comfortable here and now. But he doesn't seem to find anything at all. "Very well."

"Thank you." Halmarut straightens and squares her shoulders. "Emet-Selch is alive."

" _What_?" Ryne's voice goes high; she takes a step forward. "But that's impossible! I, I was there. Unfortunate, she--"

Hair falls against Halmarut's face as she shakes her head. "If you wish an explanation, I have none to offer. Somehow, he lives." She hesitates visibly, shoulders tensing again. If she has something more to say than that, she witholds it. "I have not yet seen him myself. But he has made himself known to me."

Urianger sits back down, sighing. "I see." He drums his fingers against the nearest table. "If that be the full detail of the knowledge thou wishest to exchange, then I promise no great specificity in return."

"So be it," says Halmarut. "I will trust myself to your sense of equity in this." She glances once more to Ryne, furrowing her brow. She shakes her head after a moment, then looks back to Urianger.

"Very well." Urianger pauses. "Ryne, pray go back to the kitchen and place the cake within the oven. I wouldst not see it forgotten amidst the rest of these occurrences."

She _hopes_ her startled noise doesn't sound quite so much like a squawk as it does to her ears. With one final glance at Halmarut, Ryne retreats into the back of the house.


	8. --

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The extent of her distraction threatens to consume her.

The world twists around Unfortunate; her stomach hiccups and writhes for at most a single second, then lurches to a halt as she steps forward into her home in Mist. Her hand twitches in Emet-Selch's, reflexively squeezing it. He doesn't look back at her; whether he intended it or not, she appreciates the moment of privacy to collect herself. She releases his hand and straightens, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt.

There's something oddly fond in his voice when he says, "You are a remarkably cold-blooded young woman." Her throat goes a little dry at the half-smile that settles on his lips. Fuck.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she says hoarsely. She looks away, glancing toward the kitchen. Shit. The bread.

Emet-Selch makes a little 'tch' noise. "Perhaps one day you'll learn to take a compliment... but I see that's not today. Come on then. We have matters to discuss." Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him settle onto her living room couch with a soft 'wumph' of layered fabric.

She should join him. "I need to run to the bakery," she says, letting disconnection be her shield. Let her voice, let all of her simply be somewhere else. Some time to prepare for the idea of sitting beside him and talking. To try and pretend like she isn't letting herself be ruled by her cunt like some teenager without a world on her shoulders.

But Emet-Selch, infuriating as ever, knows an excuse when he sees one. "Come now. It can wait. Or was everything you said back there a lie?"

"No," she says, and looks back at him. The smug asshole's just sitting there politely, as if he doesn't know what he's doing. Asshole. She doesn't even have a reason to go make tea or coffee or anything, after how much they've just had. Unfortunate forces a smile and joins him on the couch, her skirt spilling dangerously close to his. In Ishgard, they'd always had separate chairs. Somehow having nothing but soft leather-upholstered cushioning between them feels all the more... shit. Damn it, she is a grown-ass woman with responsibilities and an actual reason to be sitting here talking with him and _important things to be doing_. "Sorry. The past few days, they... they've been a lot."

"I'm sure," he says, not bothering to hide a thin layer of condescension. He turns a little to face her more fully, watching her. He _knows_ she wants him. He knows it. Not least because, what, barely a day ago she was draped over his lap, mouth locked against-- no. No. She needs to stop this. "So. Where would you have me begin?"

With his head squeezed between her-- "Probably somewhere basic. The actual particulars are likely to to go way over my head if you just dive into it right now. Ah, well, I've wrangled creation via intuition before. How do you plan out a creation?"

He watches her with his sleepy eyes and drapes an arm over the back of the couch. His fingertips settle just a few ilms from her shoulder. "So methodical," he says. "But that might do you well. To create, of course, you must know what you are creating. Something you're familiar with, or something you have an... intuitive awareness of might be made with ease. Relative to one's own skill, of course. A certain clarity of thought and concentration is required, lest the results go awry."

Unfortunate shuts her eyes. "In the vision of Amaurot you made, someone mentioned that they were creating robes, but saw some children go by, and the robes came out child-sized."

"Indeed, an easy enough error to make," says Emet-Selch. "Familiarity can breed carelessness quite readily. So, that is the simplest form of creation: something you know well already, in every respect. The shape, the size, the flows of aether that comprise it. The formation of a complete awareness of that thing is required." He pauses; she still hasn't opened her eyes to see his expression, but she hears curiosity when he asks, "Are you going to try?"

She looks at him. "I shouldn't." She's distracted, far too distracted right now. "I haven't got a proper source of aether to draw from, and I doubt I should draw on my own for such a thing. As I am."

He cocks his head, earring dangling enticingly. "I can provide that. So long as you select something simple. Better if you have proper supervision than make your attempt alone. Better for _you_ , anyway."

That's the only good excuse she has. She can't very well admit to him her distraction, because he would want to know _why_ , and she can't do that. She can't. He wants her to _admit_ to how badly he has her knotted up. Does he even want her? The _body_ does, she felt that clearly enough, but the difference between physical urges and _desire_... she is a frail, mortal thing. A flicker of existence in the face of eternity. It would be like desiring a butterfly. No, she needs to stop thinking about this. Focus. He's _taught_ her how to focus. "All right," she says. "What should I make?"

"Something you already know by heart," says Emet-Selch, making a vague gesture. "A fruit, perhaps, or a flower. Even that loaf of bread you were on about. No, don't tell me what you intend it to be. Here." Then like a cloak, he furls aether around her, chill turbulence close enough that she can feel it in her teeth.

She reaches through Shatotto's gem and takes in the offered power, letting it flow like silk over her senses. It comes so easily; even a crystal's power must be taken. This is offered freely for her to use; an aftertaste of honey clings to her soft palate. Let calm wash through her, let her thoughts sharpen and grow clear. A piece of fruit, yes. Memory washes through her; Emet-Selch standing in her room in the Pendants back on the First. Taking an orange from the bowl on the table without asking, peeling and sectioning it.

The texture of the peel, loose around the fruit within; the soft pith inside. The scent of orange oil that rises when the peel is pierced. Its mass in the hand, just enough to fill the palm. The little green nub at the top where once it hung from the tree. Inside, the fruit, sections separated by skin, translucent veils holding thousands of tiny podlets of sweet juice. The faintly bitter outside of each wedge, fibers of pith clinging. The faint sound of peel tearing.

Weight in her outstretched hand catches her attention. She blinks a few times and looks, closes her fingers gently around the orange in her palm. She shivers into the aether enfolding her. Unfortunate rolls it upside-down in her hand; presses her thumbnail to the loose bottom of the fruit. She looks back up to Emet-Selch, meets his gaze, and sinks her thumb into the heart of the orange. One-handed, she starts peeling, rotating the orange as she works it free.

Unfortunate drops the peel onto the end table and pulls away a single section. Emet-Selch watches her with veiled curiosity, his power not yet withdrawn. She presses the orange section to his lips; they part with a flash of tongue and teeth. Delicately, he bites the section in half, leaving her bare fingers to brush his lips. She withdraws her hand, half-section still pinched between thumb and forefinger. Breath leaves her in something like a shudder as she raises the bit of fruit to her mouth.

It is the sweetness of every orange she has known, the taste of a treasure brought by a peddler from afar once when she was a child, the omnipresent bowls of them in the Crystarium. The tart resentment of a guest taking them unasked, the scent of walking through La Noscea in summer.

"Trivial, of course, for a complete being," says Emet-Selch. He reaches for the remains of the orange in her hand and parts away a section. "For someone with no experience? Well, you have a fine teacher. It seems that compensates for a great deal." His turn now: he touches the fruit to her mouth, slides the whole section past her lips. The thin inner skin of the fruit catches on her teeth, threatening to tear. With Emet-Selch's gloved fingertips against her lips, she sinks her teeth through the orange section, feels it burst into juice in her mouth. Her throat constricts; she swallows.

He trails his index finger down her chin, leather dragging on skin until his fingertip presses against her throat. "You're distracted." He leans in, breath hot on her lips.

"Yes," she says, even that single word causing a hint more pressure against his finger.

Emet-Selch's hand shifts, curling loosely around her neck; the grip of leather against her skin is almost enough to set her bones a-melt. "You left me by my lonesome with naught more than a promise to return. Yet I was forced to come to you. And you never apologized."

The orange, soft in her hand. The Ascian, far closer to her than he was when first she sat. The _curiosity_ in his eyes. Against his hand, Unfortunate says, "I'm sorry."

A thoughtful noise; he cocks his head. Cool contemplation as he reaches to part away a piece of orange. And slowly, _slowly_ he begins to squeeze with the hand around her throat, stealing her breath by ilms. Emet-Selch leans in, his air free, a taunt, washing over her face. He says, so soft, so adamant, " _I do not forgive you._ " And he slips the section of orange that she created with his aether between his own lips, and he leans in, and he kisses her around it, forcing her head backward. 

His hand squeezes tighter and tighter; her teeth reach to piece the orange shared between their lips. Juice spills forth, sticky and tart; the tip of her tongue presses past the shreds of bitter membrane, touching his lip. Her eyes water as she struggles for air around his grip; he squeezes tighter still. _Want_ threatens to strangle her far more than he does. His mouth is so hot, his tongue sliding against hers, stealing the juice from her mouth as readily as he does her air.

Unfortunate lets the remains of the orange fall from her hand, wobbling aside on the couch. Still struggling with what few breaths he grants her, she reaches up, buries her hands in the fur of his outermost layer, that jacket, and begins tugging it down and off one arm; lets it hang in the crook of his elbow between them. He releases her throat and tosses the jacket aside, then plants both hands on her shoulders. He shoves her back against the couch with enough force to make her gasp, moving to sit atop her lap, knees touching her hips.

They look at each other in silence for an eternity, breathing the same air. The words drag themselves from her mouth. "All of this serves your ulterior motive. Even if the method suits you, all of this is because you believe it to serve Zodiark's will."

Emet-Selch cups her cheek with his hand, drags a thumb over her lips. "I _am_ an Ascian, you know. Are you without motive? I think you have no innocence within you."

She snags the tip of his glove between her teeth, gives it the faintest of pulls, upper lip sliding over his thumb. Unfortunate reaches for that long red sash he wears, starts to tug it free. "Elidibus doesn't trust you," she says. "It's why he sought out Lotus."

"He worries too much," says Emet-Selch. He permits her to tug the thumb of his glove loose, and slides his index finger between her lips to replace it.

The leather is bitter against Unfortunate's tongue; her teeth press around his finger, feeling flesh and nail through that thin barrier. "So does Lotus," she says, and pinches the end with her teeth, pulling.

He withdraws his finger, the loosened glove-tip brushing her cheek. The middle finger takes its place. With his other hand he curls his fingers up in her hair, tight against her scalp. "How tiresome."

She bites this finger more free of the glove as well, pulling harder, holding longer before releasing it. Her breath washes hot over his hand; her tongue presses to the pad of his ring finger. "They should mind their own business." Unfortunate pulls. He moves the last finger into place; she bites the leather and loosens its grip on his hand. The middle finger returns to her lips, and she grasps the loose end with her teeth tightly, and pulls her head back as his hand withdraws. The glove comes free ilm by ilm; she lets it fall free into her lap.

Emet-Selch grips his bare hand tight against her face now, the other still in her hair. Holding her steady, he looks: at her spectacled eyes, her cheeks, her lips, her forehead, her tongue, even as he holds his own expression shadowed, distant. He leans his head in so close she can almost feel his nose, and he hisses upon her mouth, "I _despise_ you."

A shudder of something like release ripples down her spine and whether he kisses her or she him, she cannot tell, but the weight of their lips together feels enough to crush her. "Come to bed," she says, her teeth gripping his lower lip, pulling, tongue tasting the inside.

He drives her head back with the force of another kiss, pulling her hair with an expert's grip. Then aside, as he withdraws from her lap and pulls Unfortunate to her feet with him, glove tumbling to the floor beside his jacket. He releases her hair, letting her stand straight, only to hook his fingers into the arm-hole of her dress and gripping the fabric tightly, bare fingers tight against her shoulder. A quick tug shows no give to the material, which seems to satisfy him, and Emet-Selch drags Unfortunate Incident toward the stairs to her bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating of the story will be going up.


	9. From the Land Doth Life Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever flows the Land's well of purpose...

Someone bangs on the door, adamant, inexorable. Ignoring it hasn't helped; it's been going on for-- a long time now. Too much, too much. It needs to stop; whoever it is, they need to go away.

"I know you're in there!" The knocking grows louder, harder. The voice is familiar, unwelcome. Now's not the time. "Please! Let me in, Auncle, I need to see you! I'll insist if I have to-- please don't make me."

Once they would have known it was Alair on the other side of the door; her sound would have been enough alone. Now all they hear is changed, and they have not yet learned the languages anew. Aetherflow alone is a poor conduit for awareness. Whatever law of the star granted them this gift has been changed.

Chrysanthe remains on their small, lonesome couch. They do not move, physically or aetherially, to open the door.

Alair will not be denied. She speaks with words they barely hear, fundamental harmonics of the world, seeking, driving _connection_ , imploring the door to obedience: it was made to be unlocked, to be open. The lock clicks open. Chrysanthe glances to the table beside the couch, at their mask, but leave it off. Whatever else might be, the girl is as good as family. She can see them as they are: hollow-cheeked, dark circles under their eyes, hair shorn. Alair will not recognize the black as the colour that Chrysanthe was born with; they themself barely recognize it as such.

"I'm coming in," says Alair, moments before the door yields. Chrysanthe does not turn to look at her, but notes her footsteps, the lock re-engaging behind her. The girl stops short, lets out a breath closer to a hiccup than anything else. "Please, Auncle."

"You shouldn't be here," says Chrysanthe at last, letting it out as an exhalation; still they do not look at Alair. "You should be with your mothers. Doubtless they miss you. They might even forgive you if you return home now."

Defiance and sorrow crackle through the air around her. " _Will_ they?" she says. "Look at me, please. I need to see you, to-- to know..."

Chrysanthe sighs, long and slow, but they look up at the young woman they've known for all her life. The distress is writ plain on her lips-- but Chrysanthe has no cure for that. "To know what, Alair?" they ask softly.

She searches their face, then reaches out and grabs Chrysanthe's hands. Alair takes a shuddering breath. "Auncle, they've changed. You have to have noticed it too. Please tell me you've seen it. The others haven't, but they don't know the Convocation so personally."

"Sit down, Alair," says Chrysanthe, letting their head fall back against the couch. "Perhaps your mothers are simply upset that you've taken up with a pack of dissidents."

Alair sits beside Chrysanthe and leans forward, elbows on her knees. She strips her mask, tosses it aside; her eyes are rimmed with red, to say nothing of the dark circles beneath. Her amber hair puddles on her shoulders. "You don't believe that. Why else would you have left?"

They shudder. "Because I could not countenance sacrifice on such a scale. Even if it was necessary. Spare me your conspiracies, Alair."

"Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Alair's voice grows sharper, angrier-- but clearer. She's not desperate, she's _passionate_. "If it were just the abstention-- even if you needed to step down, that wouldn't put you _here!_ Maybe Uncle Hades wouldn't _understand_ your choice but you wouldn't need to break ties with _him_. It's subtle, but they're all _different_ now! Why won't you admit it?"

Like it or not, Alair is an adult; there's no point to protecting her now. That's the only reason to deny what she's saying. "What difference does it make if they are? What's done is done. I don't feel a need to share the particulars of my personal relationships with anyone at all-- not even you. I'm here because I choose to be." The moral gravity of the situation alone is enough. To know the man that they once loved would, even reluctantly, permit so many souls to offer themselves up... That should have been enough.

"You know the difference," says Alair. "Would M-- no. Not anymore. Would Halmarut agree to end so many more lives just to remake the world? She would tease the trees back into growth, the flowers, all the life in the world. Deudelaphon would soothe those bereft of those they loved-- would see to it that no one else need be lost. She would be the first one to leave with you, if it were just a matter of moral quandary."

Chrysanthe shuts their eyes. "Sometimes the people we love turn out to not be the people we hope that they are."

"Sometimes," says Alair. "But sometimes they change-- _are_ changed. I know you read the papers about the impact of that much power upon the soul before they were suppressed. And why else would they be, if they're not affected?"

"Venat is a conspiracy theorist," Chrysanthe says, struggling against the wave of exhaustion that the very subject evokes in them. "I read the papers-- and I did not find them credible. They weren't suppressed-- they were _rejected_. Falling in with her lot has done you no favours."

"I've got to do what's right, too." Alair straightens. "If that's not what changed them, then something did. They won't even consider a road that doesn't involve shoveling more souls into that... that thing's gullet. Why do they even need to do that now that it's up and running? What sort of power engineering is that? Something needs to be done to contain it."

They've seen the specifications. Zodiark's power engineering is fine, masterful even-- even if a sapient soul engine is a fundamentally immoral thing to create. Ah. It's the sapience that's diving the thirst-- necessary power at first. But points of a bargain now. Venat would understand that too; Chrysanthe's distaste for the woman doesn't erase her qualifications. "I thought you and your confederates had given up on trying to recruit me."

Alair looks away, frowning. "The others have. They're content to just hope you respond favourably and proceed even if you don't."

"I would prefer if you agreed with them."

"Well, I'd prefer if none of this were necessary!" Alair shoots an icy glare at Chrysanthe. "I'd prefer if the world hadn't ended! I'd prefer if the only way to avoid a river of blood on our hands didn't involve some-- some-- selfish old coward! I'd give _anything_ to not need to come to you. You think I want to hear you tell me how if you just step away from everything that's good enough? Well, it's _not_."

If Alair thinks to incite Chrysanthe to anger with this-- well, she's wrong. They sigh, letting their head fall once more against the top of the couch. "Then what _do_ you need me for?"

She hesitates and then sags. "I want to tell you to just-- never mind. Here. I want you to look this over and tell me what you think." She draws a slim crystal out of her sleeve, a common sort used for writing and rewriting drafts of concepts.

Chrysanthe extends their senses, examining the threads of meaning within the crystal. Tracing the web of power, they say softly, "This is rank sedition. I could have you placed under interdict just for possessing such a schema."

"Do you think that isn't proof enough of how much things have changed?" Alair shuts her eyes. "I have to trust that you won't do that to me. Just keep going. Please."

"Mm." The grunt is all the response Chrysanthe can muster. They follow the intricacies of the plan, becoming lost in unraveling the myriad convolutions of its shape. A great deal of it is still unfinished, gaping with incomplete notions of how necessary procedures must be accomplished. But despite themself, Chrysanthe begins to see in the gaps why Alair might think to contact them. "The reduced scale is certainly a solution to the question of the power draw," they say, "but it still requires far more than can be safely baked into the moment of creation."

"It does," says Alair, curling her hands in her robe.

They tap the crystal with their index finger. "It wouldn't be the same numbers needed, but the obvious solution still requires the surrender of life energy. What do you intend for me to get out of this?"

Alair reaches into her robes once again. "I need you to look at this now." She passes over tightly-folded papers, covered in cramped writing and diagrams.

Something even more preliminary, then. Chrysanthe unfolds them, smooths out the paper. A lot of it's marked with indicators that it'd fill in gaps in the structure in the draft concept, but some of it is proposals for reworks of extant material. The power routing is entirely unlike in the draft; self-sustaining nets that don't _quite_ achieve perpetual motion (but what does, really?) but more than sufficient to hold out for a long, long time. But the initial expenditures would require... "Alair."

"Yes, Auncle?"

The pages tremble faintly in Chrysanthe's grasp. "Do you understand what you're proposing?"

"In fullness. I've solved the problem of mass sacrifice. The land itself is the answer. The cycle isn't perfectly efficient, but it's as close as can be achieved."

Yet they cannot let it go unsaid. "Initiating the creation will still require beyond what even the most powerful of enactors can bear. Moreover, to properly set the conduits it requires someone capable of hearing the land, to guide the aetherflow."

There is no hesitation within Alair. "And one to speak the call."

"There's no way one could detach from the creation," says Chrysanthe. "The invokers would be... be welded into it. There's too much energy to get away from it-- it would go haywire if you even tried. The soul that seeds it as a heart at least has some protection in that regard, being necessary to the final entity. This... this is just fatal."

But even if she doesn't hesitate, that doesn't mean she's not nervous. Alair's fingers twist around each other. With the voice of one choosing bravery against all desire and sense, she says, "I agree with you, you know. That a population just isn't capable of having enough awareness to consent to sacrifice as one. But an individual? A handful thereof? Can they not engineer their own ends that they might save... save everything? Zodiark will eventually demand every living soul if we allow him to continue. And-- those who serve him will make every one who remains believe it's necessary."

"You'd damn your mothers."

"They damned themselves, even if they didn't know it at the time. Auncle. Chrysanthe. Please. I'm asking more than anyone has any right to ask of anyone. But I asked it of myself first. This is the answer. The only answer, I think. And we don't have eternity to devote to the question."

A shudder ripples through Chrysanthe. "They're still the same people. No matter what's been... changed in them."

Alair is too young to be the one taking the lead on such brutal choices. Too young to be the one to see with clarity. She should not be the one to be brave or wise. She'd climbed their bookshelves as a child only to jump from them. Run to them to wash rather than admit to either of her mothers that she'd been playing too close to the morbols. Alair should not be the one. She should not be the one who needs to say, "That's why this must be done. Because I loved my mothers. Loved my uncle. And what I loved in them was ripped out at the roots and replaced with that-- that thing. And because there's still so many people we can protect. I-- Chrysanthe, please."

Chrysanthe deflates, eyes shut tight. They hand the crystal back to Alair and re-fold her papers. They do not look, cannot, will not face the world in this moment. And they say, softer and weaker by far than the young woman beside them, "Tell Venat I'm willing to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name "Alair" is a somewhat deeper cut than normal even for me; in Phantasy Star 3 on the Genesis, she was the younger sister of the general Lune, princess of the purple moon Dahlia, recently awoken from cryogenic suspension.
> 
> Also please check out [this awesome art](https://twitter.com/aymericborel/status/1253824899375722497) as i desperately hope the wonderful artist doesn't murder me for placing this chapter here...


	10. A Chosen Torment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pressure in her hand cannot be that she's squeezing his, holding on, clinging to a deadly, dangerous man who would destroy all that she holds dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This pornography requires no unique content warnings that I can think of.

They get no further than the bottom of the stairs before Unfortunate shoves Emet-Selch up against the wall, her hands going to the belt of his coat. "I can't believe you wear all this bullshit every day," she hisses against the top of his head, her teeth dragging against his scalp as she fumbles with the buckle. Fucking Garlean design, has to make literally everything overcomplicated.

He deftly undoes the toggles securing her bodice; her breasts ease loose with even the half-ilm of space that comes from letting her out. "If I had known a _belt_ was enough to stop you, I'd have told Lahabrea to get some installed on the Ultima Weapon."

The buckle finally gives way, though damned if she can tell how. "You didn't know I existed back then," she says, biting her way up to his earlobe. "Asshole."

"You're not going to find _that_ at this rate," he says, his breath hot across her cleavage. He pushes her off of him and back to the opposite wall with a loud _thump_. His open coat falls against her knees as his gloved fingers spider up her dress, seeking out the remaining closures. "Pity. I thought you wanted it."

She shivers into his fingers as they land on the back of her neck, opening her dress' collar. Her shoulders rise faster than the goosebumps that prickle her skin. The bodice comes loose enough that she could shrug out of it easily enough-- but no, not yet, not yet. He doesn't get to see her in this context just yet. "I should just take it," she says into his hair and drops both hands to his waist, underneath his coat. Fuck straining her neck to look down at him.

Unfortunate steps away from the wall and she _lifts_ , grinning wickedly at the sound of genuine surprise she hears from Emet-Selch. She flips him over her shoulder, securing her grip at his knees with one arm. With her free hand, she smacks his too-clothed ass. "Round about here, right?" He's heavy enough that she needs to go slow, but that's fine. Gives her time to work on unlacing one of his boots.

Nor does being held in such a position really seem to interfere with him, either; his other glove hits the ground softly and he works his fingers under the back of her dress. She stops dead, a desperate need to squirm rippling through her. "You're not used to being touched," he says against her back, voice caught somewhere between interest and surprise, and entirely too composed for his being upside-down.

That's not strictly true. He's even touched her. True, not with bare hands on bare skin, nor with intent and desire, no matter what came or didn't of that. She knows what he means. "Usually I do the touching," she says hoarsely, her fingers stumbling in his bootlaces. She covers it with a cough, and tugs the boot off, and then the squidgy woolen sock beneath. His toes wriggle in the sudden air, and she's for a moment struck by just how... ordinary his foot is. What a ridiculous notion.

She stops at the bottom of the steps up to her loft, working his other boot undone before going further. Meanwhile Emet-Selch gets her bodice loose enough that it's only held on by her arms now, and his feather-light touch is more of an agony than any edge or lash he's taken to her. She lets the boot and sock fall and brushes away a few bits of wool fluff that cling to his ankle.

Just a normal fucking foot that gets lint sticking to it and probably sweats into those ordinary socks that she has a dozen pairs just like, only bigger. Shit. Shit, now's not the time for this. She's got an Ascian over her shoulder and she's going to fuck him and she's going to _like_ it, dammit. This isn't the time to have a weird crisis over... over what, socks? Fuck. Why does she have to do this to herself? Unfortunate shifts her grip on Emet-Selch and stumps her way up the few stairs to her loft.

Kicking discarded clothing and underthings more or less out of sight first, she flips him down onto the bed, using her other hand to brace his back. Some sort of noise comes out the back of his throat, but she pays it no mind. Still standing, she slides her arms free from her dress, feeling oddly self-conscious at his gaze upon her. Dammit, he's _seen_ her tits before, sent blood trickling down the ashy-pale skin. There is no heat in her cheeks as she glances aside. None.

He is for once quiet as he tugs off his coat, letting it heap onto the ground, but there's a strange look on his face that she almost can't bear to watch. Not one of his little half-smirks, nor even one of those rare, oddly fond smiles he only uses when he thinks she isn't looking. This, with his half-lidded eyes and barest curve to his lips, is the look of a man pinching the one thread of a tapestry that will pull it all apart.

Unfortunate lets her dress slither down her hips to land atop his coat. Wearing nothing but her boots, stockings, and smalls, she sits beside him on her bed. He's still wearing gods-only-know how many layers. At least two robes, and he does have a pair of pants on too.

Her fingers feeling ungodly thick and graceless, she starts fumbling her way over his outermost robe. "Why do you have to wear so godsdamned much," she exhales rhetorically into his hair.

Emet-Selch shifts, his fingers trailing down her arms from her shoulders, swirling over her goosebumps, smoothing down the fine white hairs that once were ink-black, already fading when they first met. He touches her wrists, then the backs of her hands, and stretches his, guiding her fingers to the tiny metal hooks and eyelets that secure the ludicrous garment. "Ilsabard is remarkably cold," he murmurs, lifting her right hand and brushing his lips over the backs of her fingers.

This, no, of all the things he could do to her, of all the things she's thought of doing to him. The _softness--_ "We're not in fucking Ilsabard," she says, harshly, too harshly; her hand jerks and pulls one of the hooks entirely straight in her struggle to free it.

He turns over her hand and kisses her palm. "I hadn't noticed."

With a few more stumbles, Unfortunate gets the white outer robe fully open at last, hanging open over the red. She takes hold of the collar to pull it down and off his arms, but hesitates, still painfully aware of the sensations of his bare fingers on her hands, her wrists, her arms. "What are you doing?" The question echoes strangely in her own ears, far more unsure than she ~~should~~ feel _s_.

"I thought you were more perceptive than that, my dear, despisèd hero," he says, looking up at her with one of his more normal half-smiles. He lifts his hands from her so she can get the robe off, and then reaches to cup her jaw, thumb drifting over the echo of a scar on her cheek. "The lash, the knife-- no. You _want_ those things, that pinpoint of focus, the agony of sensation. I could give that to you. But I am _tormenting_ you, Warrior. We both would see you suffer-- but I choose to withhold the suffering of your choice."

Unfortunate shudders, shutting her eyes against the gentle feeling of fingers on flesh. "I still mean to-- to--" Yet she cannot finish the sentence, her throat closing on the words. Her hands ball into fists, clutching that final layer of cloth separating her from his skin.

Emet-Selch drags the backs of his fingers over her cheek, pressing knuckles just hard enough to make her so very aware of their presence. "By all means, seize what you can from me. But did you truly think I was going to fight _fairly_?" He gently plucks the spectacles from her nose and sets them aside on the bedstand.

How can she? How can she bend him, pin him, take him when he does _this_ to her? How can this be the greatest of cruelties? Where does this damn robe open? "I hate that you're wearing so damn much," she exhales into the palm of his hand. She's not going to ask for help. Her shoulders shake just a little. Probably the same kinds of closures; she probes for those little eyelets.

Just as she's finding some success with getting those open, he slides both his hands to cup around one of her breasts, taking its weight between them. The pads of his fingertips press gently into the yielding flesh as both thumbs circle just a hair away from her areola, teasing the nipple into wrinkling contraction. And she cannot miss the pleased catch to his breath at the way she trembles.

Trembles! Like some damn virgin who's barely encountered the notion of sex, fumbling in the grass away from the village's prying eyes. His thumbs gently come together, squeezing around her agonized nipple; she realizes belatedly that the thin, faint sound she hears is coming from the very back of her throat, up and out her nose, a whine of-- of what? She parts his robe enough to at last, at last land her hands on his bare chest. Yet she can barely move her hands to any sort of will there; they stay frozen against skin, fabric falling against the backs of her hands.

He does nothing more than lightly roll her nipple between his thumbs, his breath still hot by the time it reaches her skin. Letting her catch her breath, letting her resume disrobing him at her own pace; she is not blind to this, another part of his torment though it may be. He has all the time in the world: so too then, does she.

This is not the body she crafted for him; it cannot be, here on the Source. Only she has the luxury of continuity of flesh between shards. It's similar enough, as she unveils it at last, crimson linen parting, sliding down his shoulders and puddling at his elbows. But he's had time to make the adjustments he favours in the time since revival, and so though she knows it, she does not _know_ the body she has her hands upon.

His form is not unmarred, she finds to some surprise. Beneath the wispy hairs on his chest (slightly redder than that on his head), she can feel the marks of a blade, and this that was once an arrow-- no, a bullet-hole, with no corresponding scar on the back. She bends, the angle forcing his hands away from her chest and instead they drift and settle against her sides. Her lips brush that circular mark; her tongue dabs through, tasting this spot where once a weapon entered another body and did not leave, at least on its own. There is only the faintest salt of sweat, from wearing too many clothes. Far too many.

She straightens, cheeks colouring, self-conscious all of a sudden, and she quickly tugs the robe entirely off. He shifts, and she shoves the discarded clothing onto the pile on the floor.

Emet-Selch's hands find their way to the top of one of her boots. "These need to go," he says, fingers circling for the laces. He finds them and undoes the knot, loosening them down to her knee where the lacing stops. Careful pulls get the boot free enough to move off, and he slides off the bed to tug it all the way down to her ankle. He peels the boot away, hands closing around her leg, squeezing the firm muscle, straightening her stocking where it pulls out of place. He tosses the boot aside and squeezes her foot with both hands, fingertips warm even through the taut stocking.

Her hands squeeze and knead in his hair, catlike, as he moves to her other boot, hands lingering warmly on her thigh. He pulls out the top of her stocking and lets it snap against her skin. "But these can stay." His smile quirks up the corner of his mouth; something of it even reaches his eyes as he palms over the slim gap between boot and skin. Only when she gives his hair a sharper pull does he return his attention to her boot, undoing it entirely too slowly for her to bear. She squirms all over, her leg briefly wresting from his grip, hands falling from his hair.

"Tch," says Emet-Selch, looking up at her. "Better if you just _hold still_ , don't you think?" And she feels aether curl around her, pushing her backwards, enfolding her, warm and pillow-soft; like so he leans her back most of the way, supported at just enough of an angle that she can easily see him still. Her hands find themselves pinned near her sides; Unfortunate feels no pressure holding her down, but she finds that she cannot move at all from how he's poised her.

The bonds are far too sweet for her to be able to relax into them; she take a shuddering breath when he resumes working her boot off. It pulls away with almost a pop; the boot joins the first on the floor. He rises, looking down at her; his interest clear even through that last, awful layer of clothing, but there's no urgency to his expression at all. "And here I have you, entirely within my power," he says, showing his half-smile, leaning forward so she can even see through her blurred vision. "I could beat you, or bleed you, or burn you." His fingers trail up her stomach angled just so that she can feel the edge of fingernail. "But you've already given all _that_ to me. How dull would it be to simply take what you've already offered? What would I get from giving you pain?"

Unfortunate's breath is unsteady, roaring in her ears as she struggles to press into his teasing nails-- for something, anything, to seize that desperate intensity, and she _sees_ how she could part the bonds of aether that hold her down, sees how little it would take to break free and, and what? What would _she_ get from that? Oh, she could press the advantage and seize him-- but that seems like more of a surrender than simply submitting. To admit that _this_ of all things would be too much for her. And how that admission would please him-- she can tell by the way he strokes her bare skin, letting her feel and test the power that holds her down.

It would be so hollow to take him like that-- her breath hitches-- hollow as it would be to wreak pain upon her, she realizes. She will need to bend him to her will-- truly _bend_ him.

Foolish. Ridiculous. That _this_ of all things should be a true suffering unto her, that a sweet touch is a thing to _be endured_. She cannot. She will not. Unfortunate looks up to Emet-Selch, squinting him in as close to focus as she can. He's so pleased at having read her so, that much is clear. "I _hate_ you," she exhales, the very words making her whole body shudder.

"Good," says Emet-Selch, leaning forward to land a sharp little slap on the side of her breast, a paradoxical balm that brings an ease to her breath, an anchor to which she can cling at least for this one moment. He presses close to reach and hold her cheek in one hand, looking into her face, looking for-- something. Probably it's just her blurred vision fogging whatever nuance there is from his face.

But he's waiting for something, looking to her as his knuckles lightly drag down her sides, his palms back up. She realizes it then; her throat closes up on the word. Her mouth works silently as all the hairs on her arms stand on end. Something emerges, voice with no sound to it, a silent puff of air barely touching her lips. This should not be so hard. It should not. And yet he waits: he waits, his hands upon her bare skin, soaking in the textures of scars and gooseflesh.

At last, she musters enough of a sound: "Please." The simple admission sends a chill down her spine that forces her back into an arch all involuntarily.

Emet-Selch pats her cheek lightly, a smile playing over his blurry lips. "Good girl," he says. He moves his hands down to pinch at the drawstring of her smallclothes. She almost wants to scream at how slowly, slowly he tugs the cord. Why can't he just do it, why not just yank. She feels the waistband slowly relax first as the string comes undone and then as he slips his fingers inside, easing the soft fabric wider.

Aether rather than physical force lifts up her ass just enough for him to tug her smalls down and away, but it's with his hands that he lifts her legs to get them off entirely. At least, the thought runs ludicrously through her mind, at least she'd thought to put on clean underwear today. And he spares her some sort of display of how very much they are _no longer_ clean.

This is more than he's seen of her before (a quick eyeful when she's fresh out of the tub hardly counts), but why should that make her cheeks so hot? He's seen cunts before, probably _had_ them before, and he looks at her _face_ , not her crotch as he parts her thighs. He doesn't even glance down when he brushes his fingers into the uppermost reaches of the dense forest of curly white hair that he's exposed.

He combs through that hair, pulling curls straight and rearranging them, separating the longest bits that start to come together in locks and letting them fall. "I wonder," he muses, "what you would be least able to endure. Perhaps I should leave you like this for a time. Would you steel yourself, or use those moments to tie yourself in knots contemplating what comes next?"

He lets her stew on that for a few seconds, straightening the sweat-damp hairs in the crevices where her thighs meet her body. But he's not about to ask questions he doesn't already know the answers to. "Hm, there's really only one thing that will suit."

Unfortunate knows what's coming, she _knows_ it, but all the same she isn't quite ready for him to settle on his knees by the edge of the bed, between her legs. If he was looking at her face before, he isn't now, and his fingers brush downward, over her outer lips. His hands at least aren't much smaller than hers, but the difference is enough to strike her. He does not move inward yet; instead she feels each fingertip distinct as a pinprick amidst hair and damp flesh. 

His breath burns against her inner lips, the only part of him touching her there yet. The brushing rhythm of air brings her a desperate awareness of how she unfurls, exposing _herself_ before him, showing the slick need she cannot, cannot conceal. A shiver takes her entire body from head to toe; some nasal, feminine sound echoes strange and soft in her ears. Not her own voice, no; it cannot be.

"Ah." The cadence of his breath changes with the release of a chuckle. His hands draw back, knuckles pressing into her inner thighs. Unfortunate squeezes her legs back against that, the pressure sharpening her own breath. It's, of course, the perfect way to disarm her before Emet-Selch leans in, his tongue dragging all the way from where her lips join at the bottom up to her clit.

She gasps, her legs jumping away from his hands. Ah, what nonsense! Just his tongue, ah, a single slick stroke should hardly be enough to fill her ears with a thin little whine. When's the last time she felt such a thing? Moenbryda? And that was hardly the same--! He shakes her loose of her distraction with a simple swipe between inner and outer lips. "Stay with me," he says against her cunt, tongue and breath against her sopping skin.

Her fingers curl against her palms; they can move that much at least. Her voice sounds so far away as she says, "Why are you..." but she gets no further with that thought before another tongue-stroke on the other side pulls her back into a brief, involuntary arch. She blinks her eyes a few times, something catching in her lashes. He's hardly done anything. "You don't even..." 

That thought too is cut short as he presses his lips tight around a little curve of inner lip, pulling it between and working his tongue over the edge. Such a narrow, tiny bit of her that she's never even given much thought to save for connecting other, more important parts. What of it is enough to make her gasp, tilt her head back, as if the ceiling has some greater insight than she?

She doesn't expect an answer, not truly, but he draws his head back, and drags the backs of his fingers down the wet lines of her lips. "Look at you," he says, and she can still feel his breath. "All the things you would make of yourself, that you would claim for yourself. All the power on this star that I could bring against you, every _sensation_ that could possibly be wreaked upon you. Yet this is all it takes to render you a puddle before me. This, and only this."

He _should_ sound contemptuous about it. There should be naught but disdain in the voice that carries such words. There isn't. There isn't any of that, not in this moment. He takes his hands back to her thighs and softly rubs them, tilting his head back to the task he has chosen to craft her destruction.

His tongue slithers inside of her, and she blinks heavy lashes. "Oh," is the sound she makes, in a voice so far away. "Oh," as he presses in, tasting her, stroking walls unused to such direct attention. One of Emet-Selch's hands leaves her thigh and for some reason reaches to catch one of hers, his damp fingers lacing through hers.

And her vision blurs now with more than just natural near-blindness; the tears weighting her lashes shake loose, flowing free down her cheeks. She _feels_ him inside her, deftly taking advantage of his smaller tongue to enact subtleties of motion that play upon pent-up sensitivity. The pressure in her hand cannot be that she's squeezing his, holding on, clinging to a deadly, dangerous man who would destroy all that she holds dear.

Yet he studiously avoids driving her too far ahead of whatever pace he has in mind; his tongue pauses when the sound she makes is the choke of a sob, his thumb soft over the back of her hand. The only proof that he's aware of her clit comes from just how close he comes to it when he explicitly never touches it, leaving her to deal with the chasing need that makes her shoulder blades tingle.

She smears wetly on his cheeks when he moves his head, tight-curled hairs catching against his skin. The way his teeth press hard up against her, unyielding where all the rest is soft-- his _mouth_ , she feels his _mouth_ everywhere throughout her, heat growing in her stomach, her shoulders, her toes. Her cheeks burn with the tears that flow unrestricted down her jaw, back into her hair, falling wherever she tilts her head, and her gasps for air become deep, wracking sobs that shake her shoulders and seize her hand to grip his all the tighter.

"It hurts," she hears herself whisper between gasps, faintly, falsely. It's not true: it doesn't hurt at all, not even a little bit. She is warm, so warm, pillowed upon soft aether, wet with desperate tears and arousal, her hips straining to press deeper against Emet-Selch's face.

"Ssh," he breathes, shifting his hand against hers and squeezing tighter. This is all he need do for the tears to come even harder, flowing like blood so that her face feels wetter still than her cunt, and that still soaked and sloppy, every little vein beneath the skin pulsing insistently.

Emet-Selch comes up for air, and with his free hand drags his nails against the side of her ass. He leans his cheek against her thigh, just breathing warmly against her skin. Unfortunate gulps for air, her tears not relenting even with the reprieve. Through the mess of her vision she squints down at him, at this ancient sorcerer, this Ascian, this emperor who's schemed against her, arranged her demise, whom she's killed. And he's just resting like that, waiting, holding her hand tight.

Back when she'd first traveled with Ysayle and heard the story, she'd never fancied herself standing in Shiva's place; thought her choice foolish at best. Yet she lays here now, offered up, offering _herself_ up to be devoured by a creature far greater and more terrible than any mere _dragon_. She's not about to compare getting her cunt eaten out to being devoured body and soul but that's all just matters of degrees now, isn't it?

He doesn't give her long enough before he dives back in; she's still aching and she can't help but gasp as his tongue slips back into her. But he adds something to it; with his free hand, a single finger rubbing in light circles further back, around the sensitive ring of her asshole. There's a lack of surety to the motion, a question, but she's always enjoyed that sort of thing, and he gets that loud and clear with the whole-body tremor that shakes her, the harsh gasp-sob of a sound that comes out of her mouth. He lifts the hand away, higher, dabs a different finger inside her and when that rubbing resumes, it's slickened just enough to smooth it all out.

Between that and his tongue, his lips, even his teeth, it's not long before he has her practically squirming, her tears redoubling and shaking her with the force of their escape. Every square ilm of her afire, her lips move around the shapes of meaningless words, giving voice to them in tiny gulps.

Again he stills before she comes, leaving her panting loudly to try and somehow centre herself. But she has no hope of that, lost in just the sound of her own breathing, holding onto his hand as tight as she can, fingers trembling between his. Unfortunate tries to blink the tears away-- why is she even crying-- but just makes more of a mess of her face. 

She gets less of a breather than she did last time, and this time finally she feels his lip brush up against her clit. The extra neglect just makes even that faint touch arch her back and curl her toes. He doesn't overstay his welcome there, either, giving it little flashes of attention-- a quick suck here, a well-placed swipe with his tongue there, offering emphasis by pressuring her ass with his finger.

"Please," she sobs, seizing his hand as tightly as she can. She doesn't even mean to say it; the word just falls out as tingling heat floods her and her cunt pulses with dire need. She squeezes her eyes tight against the flood gushing forth, and she repeats, fainter, "Please."

Emet-Selch only breaks contact for the breaths he needs to exhale the words, "Oh, very well. Come, my dear." And he gently presses his teeth around her clit, holding it in place so his tongue can lavish attention upon it. Some tiny part of her gets annoyed that he would put it like that, but it gets drowned out by the surge of blood in her ears, the heat that grips her from head to toe, the backs of her hands tingling, and she presses hard up against him. Her eyes clamp shut wetly, a futile defense against the last of her tears rushing out.

Unfortunate writhes in the aetherial ties that hold her halfway up, sobbing and hiccupping for air as the feeling slowly eases away. She blinks wetly, still breathing hard, still warm. Below, Emet-Selch turns away to paw through the piles of discarded clothes. He shakes free a length of white cloth. He pats the handkerchief lightly between her legs, dabbing up some of the slick wetness there. He lets it drop, and pulls out another handkerchief that he wipes his face with, then also both his hands, lingering on a finger.

Sagging in the grip of aether, Unfortunate blinks once more, and says, faintly, "Get up here."

WIth power and nothing else, she's guided to a full sitting position and then released, as Emet-Selch sits beside her. He lifts a hand, wiping her cheeks with the backs of his fingers, a strange, wry smile curling his lips. That smile vanishes for startlement as she draws her arms tight around him and pulls him down with her, sliding him up to be more face to face. At last she works her hands around to undo his pants, pulling them down and tugging them out of the way as best as the angle allows; with aether she gets them down and off and just rolls them onto the floor. But all she does after that is press her face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder.

He hesitates, but rests his hand on her back, fingers splayed, warm in a way she's never noticed his hands to be before.

"What was she like?" Unfortunate asks into his skin, her breath still not steady as it should be.

Nor is he prepared for the question. "Hm?"

"The person you're looking for, when you look at me." It's not even a question she wants to know the answer to. Not really. That's not something she wants to place herself up against in any regard. And yet, it's there, inescapable.

"Ah," says Emet-Selch into her hair. "Ah. They."

"Pardon?"

"Despite a superficial connection," says Emet-Selch, sounding very far away, "they were no more a woman than I am. They found the very concept of either to be... anathema. To themself, at any rate."

"I see," says Unfortunate, squeezing her eyes tight. She doesn't-- not in the personal sense, anyway. The very idea of absenting herself from womanhood feels-- no. A poor fit for her skin, and there's something about knowing that some part of her once felt differently that sits strangely with her. "What were they like?"

"Quiet," says Emet-Selch after a silence so long she almost thinks he means not to answer. "A maker of laws, and a weaver of ties. They studied language, and used those studies to the service of both those ends. Yet they could not bear to do harm by their own hand, and that... they stood by that." His fingers press against her back, and some impulse leads Unfortunate to catch his other hand in hers, squeezing it.

She lets him hold her hand, and squeezes him close against her. "That doesn't sound much like me," she says, making the smallest, bitterest of laughs against his shoulder.

He presses his face more into her hair. "No," Emet-Selch says. "No, it doesn't."


	11. A Tightening Knot to Staunch the Bleeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is long past time for Unfortunate to seize control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant content notes in the tags, but as before, there's nothing particularly objectionable in this pornography.

It takes some time for Unfortunate to realize she's awake, drifting in a warm haze that weights her limbs down and lures her back toward deeper dreams. But something... there's something odd that draws her attention, sharpening her mind toward alertness. It takes some time to register what it is-- a warmer patch on her side, faint pressure against her chest. Soft, rhythmic puffs of air land on her breast, and her cheek is pressed into something soft.

The mystery filters through her sleepy mind, winding its way through her thoughts until she realizes: she's not alone. A stiffness washes up through her back as that awareness hits, but it doesn't penetrate the bone-deep relaxation that holds her in its grip. She makes a soft sound from the back of her nose, muzzy and vague. She could let go, let sleep drag her back down. Rest sounds so tempting...

How much longer is it before she drifts awake again? She can't tell, but she's still so warm, still feels hair beneath her cheek, breath upon her breast. Does she even want to open her eyes? Right now, everything feels so soft around her.

It's a strange feeling, waking up with someone beside her, held close in her arms. She avoids it as a matter of course, especially here; there's not quite enough privacy between her space and Lotus'. Even otherwise, given the choice, she uses others' spaces and returns to her own. Too much traveling with others both erodes shyness but makes privacy more valuable than any amount of gil.

But... it's nice. Nice enough she doesn't want to open her eyes and ruin it all by letting reality intrude upon anything. She's going to have to sooner or later. Will she? She rubs the hair beneath her cheek, breathing warmly into the silky mop. It's never this warm when she wakes up. Her arms curl the form nestled up against her even closer, and she spreads her hands out against the lightly-muscled back.

Better not to think. Just sleep like this, and not let go. Drift away into the warmth, into the aether mantled around her, fogging into her own, stay secure and tangled up with blankets and bodies, and be something like content.

The next time she awakens, her thoughts are a little clearer, though the comforting warmth still holds her close; she still holds it close. Reluctantly, Unfortunate peels one eye open, taking in the soft brown and white blur she has her face pressed into. Blessedly, she's still not yet awake enough to panic as it slowly filters through her mind just _who_ is tucked up into her arms, cheek pillowed upon her breast, breathing evenly with sweet sleep.

She never imagined Emet-Selch to be so warm. She rubs her cheek muzzily into his hair, a few strands drifting between her lips.

A faint, nasal sound drifts through the air; not her own. It's something... she doesn't know what. Of course he _sleeps_ , and once a lifetime ago they even drifted off together, under a tree, as she tried to escape pain and fear, and he-- well. His motives are what they are. Even now. She lifts one hand, dragging her knuckles lightly up his spine, the back of his neck, into the closer-cropped hair cut beneath his more unruly mop.

That hate could feel so sweet... He stirs against her, cheek nuzzling her skin. She does not let him go. His arm shifts, and his hand settles to the small of her back, softly rubbing her there.

Unfortunate tilts her head, pressing her face more directly into his hair, breathing warm and steady. To move too much, to say a word, to let go-- she dares not let the moment escape. He shifts his head, lips pressing softly into her skin, his chest pressing against her stomach. She trails her fingers over his cheek, feeling his face, tracing the ridiculous lines of his eyebrows.

He lifts a hand, rubbing sleep from his eyes. What an ordinary little gesture; what a silly thing for her to be charmed by. "Well," she says into his hair, "it seems you've seduced me. Another step in your dread plot. What next, hmm...?"

"Perhaps a little knife, plunged right here," he murmurs, his fingers sliding up under one breast, rubbing between her ribs. "A swift end to the Warrior of Light's infernal meddling once and for all. What of Hydaelyn's design?"

She pulls him up a little bit and hooks a leg over and around him. "Oh, I'm sure I must have some white auracite around here _somewhere_." He leans into her hands as she kneads her knuckles into the muscles, firmly working them over. Odd that this is the form he favours-- not that of the Emperor of Garlemald, no, but this particular moment out of the life of the man. In his prime, more or less, to be sure, but nearing the end of it, out of the field at least day-to-day. How old the shape? Ten years older than her? Fifteen? Somewhere in that range. No real wrinkles, but that could just as easily be (forgivable) vanity. Still firm and fit, on an inescapably slender build, but with the feel of having let himself go a little bit. Softening some, and-- she paws with one squeezing hand, just to make sure-- with some very acceptable padding on his ass.

It's not, Unfortunate finds, displeasing. Not her usual type. But there's nothing _usual_ about any of this. Her hand slides up, pressing up and down in the small of his back. His lips rest against her neck, pressing into the shape of kisses that send faint tingles down her spine.

Even as she feels his cock gradually stiffen between them, the thought voices itself unbidden: "Is it even possible for _you_ to be attracted to a being like me?" Bodies will do what they please, but an Ascian is not the flesh he inhabits. And she is little better than half a person by his standards.

Emet-Selch's tongue dabs at her neck; he makes a thoughtful sound against her skin. At least he doesn't rush to give her some platitudes or try to distract her by suddenly turning overly attentive. "It's a complicated question," he says, reaching up to slide his fingers through her hair. He combs her curls loose slowly, working out the tangles of sleep. "Allow me to answer it thusly: in no regard was it _necessary_ for me to find my way into your bed. Not even expedience-- surely not that. I am here because it suits me and because it pleases me to be."

"Hmm," says Unfortunate, letting out her breath into his hair. One hand slides down to paw his ass, fingertips just curling between the cheeks. Stupid thing to say. There's no answer which could possibly feel any _good_ to hear. Oh, what he said was probably even true, but it was very much a careful avoidance of the obvious 'no'. Why would he say anything else?

He gives her hair a little tug. "You're well aware that you're passing lovely by any standard that you care about. And of all your worries, that you are _desirable_ has never been one of them, I think." Is he... trying to reassure her? Her fingers dig in, squeezing his ass tighter. His voice turns more playful. "You don't even like me."

That does make her laugh, and she works her hand around to give his cock a squeeze, feeling it slowly up and down. "It's true," she breathes. "You're _dreadful._ " He grows harder in her hand as she works it up and down, giving her a better feel for his size. His breath grows warmer on her neck and his fingers curl in her hair.

He's not as big as she'd like, but she can make do; has made do with less (which is not a slight on Estinien; she's sure he's perfectly fine by elezen standards, but she is, of course, rather larger than that). She hikes her leg up more around his body, pressing her foot lightly against his thighs as she slides him into a slightly better angle for her. She pauses, considering-- she wouldn't mind having him up her ass, not at all. But then she'd still have to dig up her oil and the angle would be less comfy, and frankly, all of that sounds like too much work right now.

Besides, she wants to know what he feels like the regular way. Using her hand to guide his cock she tilts her hips and squeezes him in with her leg, loosing a soft breath into his hair as she sinks her way around him. His back ripples with a moment of sweet tension, and he presses his lips tight to her collarbone, teeth sharp against her skin.

Not a tight fit, no, but a comfortable one. She easily accommodates the full length of him, their hips meeting against each other. She holds like that for a few moments, taking in the heat of him inside her. It's _nice_ , is what it is. How does an Ascian have a _nice_ dick?

She holds him in place with her leg easily, not relinquishing control as her hips work, not that he seems inclined to fight her for it at the moment. Instead they just hold onto each other, bodies pressed tight, her breath or his catching at this motion or that. She doesn't hurry, or even pull back very far; just slow and steady. It's too early in the morning-- no matter what time it actually is-- to make a rush of it.

His hands roam her back, tracing over scars, feeling spots that he himself had marked and those fading remains, her own muscles-- softened some from recovery and the rest she's managed to seize for herself and never quite as hard in the first place as her less studious companions. But good enough, and disguised against her skin she feels the curve of a smile.

Well, he'd been right about that much-- it's not like she's concerned about _physical_ attraction. She looses a soft noise into his hair, just enjoying the tingling warmth as it suffuses her body.

"Here," he says softly and she hears aether stir around her. She isn't quite sure what he's going for until she feels that brush of power settle on her clit. She makes a long gasp at the delicate pressure, her back tensing.

But it doesn't force her along, just adds emphasis to her motions, sharpening as she pulls in close against him. Her head leans back, and she breathes a soft, "Ahh," as Emet-Selch cranes his neck up to damply kiss the hollow of her throat.

How is it that he slices through her problem with such ease? The extent to which she'd struggled alone, with a partner, any of it-- and yet as she works against him she feels that no longer familiar sensation wash through her, hazing her vision even further.

And then he too murmurs, the strained sound prickling her ears, "If you'd have me spill outside, now's the time."

Startled, Unfortunate shakes her head, her eyes squeezing shut reflexively. "It's fine." Her back pulls into a tight arch; she shifts her arms to pull him closer against herself as her chest curves back. She does ease back with her leg a little, giving him the play to move on his own if he needs.

Then she just gives herself over to the feeling. It's by no means the most intense orgasm of her life, but she doesn't need that right now anyway. Being reduced to desperate tears is... a little much. Instead it's a sweet, whole-body warmth that holds her close for a few long moments-- what a feeling to elude her for so long.

He nestles up against her as the feeling fades, slipping out as he scoots up high enough to actually look her in the face. Whatever he's looking for-- the strange, faint smile that catches his lips, the catch to his eyes-- she doesn't know. She doesn't know.

"Breakfast first," Unfortunate asks, retreating into the change of topic, "or should I put the bath on?"

* * *

It ends up being breakfast, with a loaf of bread conjured from aether to replace the now-stale one that had been appropriated the other day. While she waits for the frying pan to heat, Unfortunate squints at the bread, giving it a squeeze. "If it's made from your own aether," she asks as she puts it down, "isn't that a little personal?"

Emet-Selch turns a page in his book. "And so easily you understand why farming never truly did go out of fashion. Simple, hmm?"

If that's so, then that orange _she_ made with _his_ \-- shit, shit, she runs back to the couch to grab the remaining half of it, abandoned and wrinkling from being left out in the air for so long. She puts it down on the kitchen counter, letting out a sharp breath. "I suppose. How far did we get yesterday before we got distracted? Right, uh, so what if you're needing to create something new, that isn't familiar. And you can't just go pick up the design from somewhere."

"There are degrees, of course," says Emet-Selch, not looking up. "Perhaps you'd like a loaf of bread just like that one, but you want it to be, oh, I don't know, purple. And you'd like it to taste faintly of cherries, and to scream when you slice it. None of these notions individually are particularly unusual, but no one, ever, has combined them into one thing."

Unfortunate pauses with a knife touching the crust of the loaf. "I hope not." She cuts a slice rather more gingerly than she would have otherwise. The bread, thankfully, does not scream. "So in that scenario, I assume that you'd already know how to make a loaf of bread, and cherry flavour, and purple colouring, and screaming when cut? So, you'd imagine the bread tasting like cherries, and all the rest of that. And you're well-practiced enough at that point that you sort of subconsciously know how to thread the aether together without actually needing to go into, oh, this much lightning, and so on?"

He glances toward her when she starts arranging strips of bacon on the pan, then back down to his book. "Not precisely. But near enough given how little you know. And this is the last of the forms where precision is not a mandate. Everything we have discussed thus far, any child could do-- to varying degrees of complexity, of course."

With the bacon sizzling away, Unfortunate looks back to the coffee siphon. She gives the upper chamber a tap, eyeballing it for any lingering liquid, and finding none she draws the carafe away, pouring out a single mug. A single pinch of sugar-- she hesitates, then lets half of it drizzle back into the bowl-- goes into the cup. One, two, three stirs, leaving the spoon in the mug, and she sets it down on the kitchen table. By then her tea has been steeping long enough, and she pours herself out the first pass of the potent Hingan brew.

"Right, so--" Unfortunate slaps down a slice of bread and cuts out a ring in the middle with a glass. She does a couple more slices, waffling over the thought, then decides to go for it. "Just as an aside, did garlic start out with legs, or did someone decide it needed legs?"

"Hm," says Emet-Selch, slurping loudly at his coffee. "I believe the legs were an innovation by some Halmarut or other-- long before my time. Why do you ask?"

She slides the bacon more to the side of the pan and spreads the fat around. The bread gets slapped down into the fat, and she wriggles them around to get enough room for the cut-out circles too. "I just-- how is that possibly a good idea? They'd send us out hunting wild garlic when I was little and one damn near broke my nose. It wasn't until I got to Ul'dah that I found out there's places where it stays in the ground like a good little plant." She flips the bread once it's had enough time to toast and cracks an egg into each hole.

Another loud slurp of coffee. "The idea might have been self-fertilization or some similar notion. Plants are hardly my field of expertise."

Unfortunate grunts and sprinkles salt onto each egg, and pinches of pepper from out of the mortar. "Well, anyway. I assume it's a fairly safe bet to say that something like Zodiark or Hydaelyn was not a creation of simple building blocks, except maybe in the most abstract of senses. So: what do you do when you're heading out into the woods like that?"

"Here is where 'this much lightning', as you put it, matters," says Emet-Selch, rising to pour himself more coffee. "Theory becomes a matter of some import-- you must know and understand what comprises a thing on the aetherial level. Only then may you begin to use that aether to enact its creation." He peers around Unfortunate's arm, briefly watching her finish off the eggs, and strolls back to his seat.

Unfortunate bobs her head and starts sliding egg-baskets onto plates, then adds a small pile of bacon beside, making sure to also add in extra crispy bits that she scrapes up. "Okay, so this-- the principle anyway-- isn't too far outside my experience. You devise the formula based on the desired effect, then you brew your potion, or whatever. Then test, adjust, re-test, et cetera. Or like sewing from a pattern, or cooking a recipe or-- whatever. So there must have been a means of recording the-- formulae." Is this boring him? It's probably boring him. Or would he just leave if he was bored? It helps her to say it out loud, though, like sounding out words in a book. She slides the pan off the burner, douses the flame, and carries the plates (balancing both her teapot and cup with two fingers) to the table. She slides one over.

Emet-Selch raises his eyebrows briefly at having breakfast just slid in front of him, though Unfortunate really can't fathom why. He _eats_ food. He's demolished any number of expensive pastries she's had out when he's come over. But whatever surprise passes shortly and he picks up a fork. "That's certainly not how we would have framed it, but yes, of course. One would set plans to paper or within crystal, depending on the nature or completion of the plan. Crystal, of course, is ideal if one is testing enactions, but if one is simply laying out drafts it's better to lay things out in front of you."

"Hmm," says Unfortunate. She tears off some toast from around the edge of one of her slices of bread and dunks it into a yolk. "Could you... could you show me?"

"Ah?"

She leans over to pick up a pad of paper and pencil. She tears off the grocery list on top. "Just, you know, something simple."

"Oh, very well." He swallows, taking them from her. "I suppose a look couldn't hurt. Let's see, what should I show you-- ah." And between pauses to take bites of breakfast, Emet-Selch begins to sketch.

Unfortunate doesn't try to look over at what he's doing-- much-- and just focuses on her own food when a sound from another room catches her attention. A very linkpearl-y sound. "Ugh," she says, around a mouthful of bacon, eggs, and toast. She washes it down with a good slosh of tea and rises. "I swear, if anyone is trying to get me to chase down some damn primal or they've discovered some new horrible fact about me-- well, I won't have it. But I'd better take this call."

She traces the sound to her coat pocket, which does pique her interest. Not one of her usual linkpearls, then. She reaches in and fishes out the buzzing one, finding it to be marked with a thin band of glossy red lacquer.

Well, well, well. She raises her voice. "I do need to take this, but it's probably not-- that kind of emergency."

Then Unfortunate fits the pearl to her ear and activates it. "Nero! How's my favourite little engineer? Still short?" She pads around to her library, chortling her way through the initial pleasantries. He is, of course, still doing well, and still mildly put out at being called short. That's why she does it, of course. But anyway. The heart of the matter remains. "Things have been moving awfully quickly lately-- I'd originally been looking for another set of eyes on some Allagan material I'd gotten my hands on, but the project's moved on. How _ev_ er--" She pauses, to let Nero get a word in edgewise. "-- no, what I found wasn't of real use, aside from getting me the parts codes I needed, and I'd managed to get translations from another source. I _do_ have a couple other fully functional artifacts I think you'd find very interesting, though. _If_ you'd be willing to do me a favour..."

She fiddles with the spines of some books, listening to the faint scratch of pencil on paper coming from the kitchen. "Now, I need them back, of course. But what I'm hoping to get my hands on are some portable high-capacity storage crystals. Filtered, ideally, or a filter I can mate with them.-- no, higher. -- Higher.-- Look, big enough that if a beast tribe got them we'd all hold onto our knees and kiss our asses good-bye." She stifles a yawn, ignoring Nero's objections. "You _like_ challenges. Did I mention I have development notes from the project to bring back Xande? Be a shame if someone had to delete those to free up space on this tomestone." Not that she'd do that. And he knows she wouldn't do that. But it's an alternative to threatening to pick him up bodily, tying him up, and dropping him on Cid's doorstep. Which, Twelve knows someone _ought_ to do that. But business before pleasure.

The threat takes, with further haggling. "Ugh, fine, _yes_ you can use my couch, but I need you to replace my lock on the front door. You may need to drill it out. Give me something fancy.-- Melted.-- Look, it was important that I do it at the time. I had reasons. Important reasons. Also you can only stay while I'm not there. Lotus is out of town, too, so you'll have the place to yourself.-- Because I'll be having _sex_ , Nero. Unless you _want--_ "

" _No_." The interruption comes soft and clearly from the other room.

"-- well, never mind, he says no. Anyway, yes, you can stay, but not while I'm here. I'll let you know when I head out next. Is this shell going to still be good for you? -- Okay, good.-- Good.-- Oh. One last thing, while I'm talking to you. If Lahabrea had come up to you and told you to install belts on the Ultima Weapon, what would you have done? -- Just ordinary belts. The kind with buckles.-- Mm, no reason. Good to know. Right, anyway, I'll talk to you later." She slides the pearl out and goes to tuck it back into her coat pocket.

When she gets back into the kitchen, Emet-Selch's plate is empty except for crumbs, and she seems to be down a piece of toast, too. Well, fine. She slides the plate away and puts it in the sink. "That name sounds vaguely familiar," he says. He keeps sketching on the paper, thin lines and notations spidering out across the page.

"Nero," says Unfortunate, digging in to the last of her toast. "Uh, Scaeva. Was with the Fourteenth. He was, uh, what's the title? Tribunus, I think? He was the engineer who did most of the work with the Ultima Weapon, as far as I know."

Emet-Selch makes a thoughtful noise and lifts his coffee to his mouth. "Ah, yes. Garlond's boy's rival. You sounded _remarkably_ friendly with him."

"I'm a very likeable person."

He rolls his eyes. "Of course you are. At any rate. Here." He pushes the pad of paper over toward her.

The drawing is, at first, an incomprehensible nest of lines and squiggles. But as she squints down at it, there are bits that seem to follow a familiar logic. There are two main sections she can make out, both drawn back to a single symbol she sees nowhere else on the page. Unfortunate circles her finger around it, lingering on each one of six marks on the edge of the symbol. "That's an aether source," she says, sounding more confident about it than she feels. "The enactor."

When she looks up at Emet-Selch, there's a look on his face that she's not sure she's seen before. It's almost wary. She traces the line from the source, her lips moving silently as she tries to make sense of the diagram. There's a vague similarity, at least in principle, to Allagan schematics she's seen. She doesn't exactly understand those either, but she's at least _had_ them explained. She follows along to a point where the diagram line forks, leading to a short dead-end terminated with a little mark. Something about it seems dreadfully familiar to her.

"That's a stabilizing line," says Unfortunate, frowning down at the short branch. "Ties into ambient aether and holds the network taut. There's... there's a few of these. Here. And here. And so on."

"Well," says Emet-Selch softly, that wary look still sitting strangely on his features. "Perhaps your so-called intuition is a little more than talk."

She traces her finger in a ring around the diagram. "I feel like I should know what this is. It's something familiar."

"It does indeed describe something known to you," says Emet-Selch. He rises to go refill his coffee. "Whether or not you should know it from seeing it so-- that, I cannot say."

It's all just guesswork, really. "I still don't know what any of these symbols mean. I'm not about to assume they're representative. I think... these separated lines, the marks describe elemental biases. They must. So here, where they come together and apart in a triangle-- they're moving together. That's unusual for a sextelemental work. Why would you want to pipe them all together... you're not, you're shuttling them. This is a ley line connection net. But I don't understand a lot of what it's doing. This entire parallel section, I don't know what it's for."

Emet-Selch leans over, touching a few of the symbols. "Dynamic connections," he says softly. "Movement between ambient lines without losing the construction. The other--" he traces a ring around the outside of the secondary diagram, "-- describes physical specifications and processes."

"That would explain why I can't even make a little bit of sense of those parts," Unfortunate murmurs. "The Mhachi used some odd notations to describe their spellwork, and I learned ley lines via their methodology. Perhaps that grounding helped what little I did grasp..."

"Perhaps," says Emet-Selch, brushing some toast-crumbs away from the page. "I think that's enough for the moment. We might discuss this further later."

She glances up from the page to meet his eyes; he looks away almost immediately. Is this too much? Does she now intrude on things which he cannot say? No, that seems unlikely; that he showed her anything at all was close to where they are now. Something else, then. She decides against pushing it-- he hasn't closed the door on going over more later, so there's no need to drag it out of him. "All right," she says. "I still need a bath. Will you be joining me? There's room."

He flips his white forelock out of his face with a casual motion. "I'd might as well."

* * *

The bathtub is a large, Doman-style affair with more than enough room for them both to sink and relax into. So they just soak opposite each other, relaxing in the heat.

Unfortunate sighs. "What is this, exactly?"

"Hm?"

She sinks deeper into the tub, her toes touching the other side, not far from Emet-Selch. "This... thing we're doing. What are we, exactly? Is this a... let's never speak of it again sort of thing, are we together now, are we back to whatever it is we were doing before, what?"

Emet-Selch just looks at her for a few moments, and then just shakes his head. "You truly are incapable of simply enjoying yourself."

She glares at him across the water. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't be tedious," he says. "You know precisely what I mean. I don't _care_ what name you put to this... association we have. Do you do this _every_ time you take a lover? I can't _imagine_ why you live alone with a cat and a comrade-in-arms."

Unfortunate scowls and splashes water at him. "Normally I fuck people I _like_ , so you can see why I'm at a loss. So, fine, I guess we're fucking now. That's not going to stop me if there's someone else I want. Now make yourself useful, would you? Help me with my hair." She pulls up into a sitting position and shoves herself over to his side of the tub, facing away.

"It's none of _my_ business what-- or who-- you do with your time," says Emet-Selch, water sloshing around as he turns. "Do you really only have that awful soap? Fine." Behind her, she hears aether move and take form. Earth and lightning, she thinks, astrality pinned between umbral stasis. He sets it down, whatever it is-- a jar of something creamy, tinted just a little blue-- on the edge of the tub. She contemplates it as he lifts water onto her hair until it's thoroughly soaked.

It must be whatever soap he cares to use instead, for he curls up a dollop of the substance from the jar onto his fingers, and rubs it into her hair. A rich lather rises up around his fingers, and if she leans into them a little, well, it's only to help him scrub. He's good at it, anyway, digging in deep to get all the way down to her scalp. She closes her eyes, leaning in and just enjoying the feeling of him working soap into every ilm of her hair.

She can _too_ enjoy things. She starts to turn when he rinses her hair out, but stops when he sets a hand against her shoulder. Aether moves once more, and he sets down another little pot of opalescent cream. This too he starts running through her hair; it silkily flows through his fingers as he rubs it in. He piles her curls up on top of her head and lets it sit, and he presses his chest to her back.

He wanders his fingers down between her legs and pulls a few curls straight. "You really should do something about this," he murmurs, letting go after a moment and moving to rinse her hair.

Unfortunate leans her head back, just a little. " _You_ deal with it. I'm not the one eating it." She turns once he finishes with her hair, and rains warm water from her fingertips down on his head. She reaches for the first jar he created and gives it a little sniff. There's flowers and a hint of spice to the smell, teasing her with an urge to unravel it. She scoops out half a palmful and starts working it into his hair.

"Hm," he says, leaning his shoulders against her breasts. The hair in her fingers soaps up marvelously, squishing all between her fingers. "In the interests of being a civilizing influence..."

Water answers her call again, this time to rinse out the soap from his hair. "If I see so much as _one_ ivory standard..." The other jar next. "How does this work?"

The angle spares her from seeing whatever doubtlessly eloquent expression crosses his face. "The same as the other. Let it sit and soak in for a little while."

So she rubs the cream through his hair; it turns silky in moments just as she works it in. Not a lot to do with the short-shaved hair near the back of his neck, but she does what she can to spread it there too, using her knuckles to get against the skin. Once she's got it thoroughly into his hair, she just slides her arms over his shoulders and waits.

Maybe he doesn't care what this... thing is called. But it would be nice to have a name for it. 'Relationship' would suggest emotions and expectations that aren't really there.

It startles her a little when he says, "That's long enough." She does her best to cover it, and calls forth water again, rinsing it through his hair. The cream washes away and leaves the hair feeling astonishingly smooth. She toys with it a little, curling strands around her fingers.

He lets her play with his hair for a while. Eventually, he tells her, "Sit up on the edge with your knees apart if I'm to see what I'm doing."

Apparently he does mean to do it. Well, fine. She lifts up out of the tub, settling on the edge with her cunt about at his eye level. Emet-Selch reaches into the air and twirls his hand; a tiny pair of silvery scissors spins into being around his finger. He catches them with a thumb, stilling them with a little flash.

And with a strange little smile on his face, the Ascian sets to trimming away at the dense forest of Unfortunate's pubic hair. He's fairly conservative about it; she never does feel the cold touch of the scissors against her warm skin. Despite this, the pile of curly white hair that he deposits on the side of the tub beside her grows swiftly. He pauses every now and again to dampen his fingers and use them to wet the pile of hair, keeping it from flying away.

She fiddles with his silky hair while he works, listening for each individual snip of the scissors. It's... it's nice, being tended to like this. It's not like she'd bother doing this for herself, but there's something about the intent little look on his face, the touch of his fingertips on her skin... She looks away from him, taking a deep breath of steamy air, lest she start crying again. She doesn't need that, and neither does he.

Emet-Selch sets the scissors aside and combs his fingers through her hair. At a few points he picks up the scissors again and catches a few stray hairs, but mostly he lifts water to wash away any trimmed hair he missed and smooths the remainder down. He finishes-- much to her surprise-- by parting her lips with two fingers, leaning in, and pressing a quick little kiss to her clit.

Mischief, perhaps, or something else, moves her to tighten her fingers a little in his hair. "You _do_ have an obedient nature, don't you?" she says. Her lips curl into -- surely not a smile.

"Perish the thought," he says, still down by her knee. "I merely agreed with the need for correction."

She tugs his head up by the hair so that she can look down at him properly. "Is _that_ so? Well, if it's recalcitrance, then-- I don't mind that, either." She lets go, only to pat his cheek and then stand up. "Come along now." Taking a towel with her, she strolls out without looking back.

It's not that much of a gamble; she can hear him follow readily enough. But it's the look that's important. The _style_. If she slips even a little, he'll take advantage, and while that has its points, she doesn't really want him to get into the habit of thinking he'll get away with it. So she strolls up to her loft, casually finishes drying off, and tosses her towel over the edge to land just past the open bathroom door.

Entirely nude, she goes to one of her drawers and pulls it open. "I _am_ going to need your help with something, however." A brief flash of guilt flickers through her-- perhaps she shouldn't spend _all_ day fucking an Ascian off and on.

Eh. She shouldn't do a lot of things. She lifts out a lovely little construction of straps and rings and tosses it onto the bed, and thoughtfully pulls out several of her options. She has, naturally, assembled herself somewhat of a collection of dildos, most of which fit neatly with the harness she's just fetched, but that still means she needs to actually _pick_ one. Or have him pick one, rather-- she does like to secure that sort of complicity, after all.

However, she swiftly notices a problem as she lifts up her various toys. She circles thumb and forefinger around one and slides it off the shaft. Holding her hand up to gauge appropriately, she turns to look back at Emet-Selch, standing a few fulms away with a vaguely bemused expression on his face.

She looks at the ring of her fingers. She tilts her head to try and gauge his ass. Comfortable padding or no... "My _dear_ Emet-Selch," she says, affecting his own breezy, condescending tones, "I'm afraid these may be a little much for you. Of course, I know what I'm doing-- if one of these is to your fancy, I will certainly use it." She waves a hand at the assortment of toys she has tossed out on the bed. They're all perfectly lovely constructions of polished wood, ceramic, glass-- one delightful one made of shiny steel-- but without the shadow of a doubt, her cunt is substantially bigger than his ass. And she certainly didn't have a mind to thrust them into a jackass of an Ascian inhabiting a particularly small Garlean's body when she bought any of them.

Emet-Selch slouches, of course, his arms folded across his chest. "This sounds as though you have an 'or' coming."

A smile settles on her lips, there's no denying _that_. She pads toward him, looming just a little bit, and presses her hand to his chest. She pushes him lightly toward the back wall. "Why, you know the flesh you inhabit far better than I do. Pick one of those if they suit you-- but if none do, well." She leans down and in, breathing on his lips, her smile changing to a grin. "Then create for me the cock I'm going to fuck you with."

Oh, he likes _that_. With her free hand, she trails a finger down the length of his cock. Already starting to stiffen, and she feels it twitch against her touch. He swallows visibly. "You _are_ creative," he says, effort to sound unmoved showing through the edges of his voice. He flicks his gaze over to the array of options jumbled up before him. "Very well."

Aether flows from him into the air around them both. She gently trails her thumb around the head of his cock, leaning a little more forward against him. She needs to put her mouth on it. Very much. But not right now, no; that's not what this is.

He snaps his fingers, and the tool of his choice appears in the air above his hand. It falls, and he catches it. "This should more than suffice," he says, holding it out for her. Unfortunate lets go of him and takes the toy. It's smaller than any of hers, but not by all that much. Mostly just slimmer, though with a wide enough base she should be able to use it just fine. Thoughtful.

But-- "What's it _made_ of?" It _feels_ rubbery, but smoother than any rubber she's ever seen or made. So smooth the dark violet material shines, even, with an opalescent glisten where the light hits it. The shape is mostly like that of a real cock, but with a wicked curve and a few smooth ridges. She gives it a good squeeze and finds it yielding-- but only a little bit.

"Allag was the most recent to discover it," says Emet-Selch, recovering a bit of his smugness. "For industrial uses-- at first."

Of course it was the Allagans. Of course. But it does seem just similar enough to rubber to give her pause. "Oil won't eat away at this, will it?"

He rolls his eyes. "Of _course_ not. And I'll thank you not to try foregoing it."

Mouthy, mouthy. She gives his ass a sharp smack. As a warning. "I know what I'm doing. Come along." She curls her fingers up in his hair and gives him a tug back toward the bed. With her foot, she sweeps the mess off the bed and onto the floor. Whatever. She'll pick them up later. Unfortunate tosses Emet-Selch down onto the bed like a rag doll, and picks up her harness.

Leaning up on his elbows, Emet-Selch looks back over one shoulder in time to see her finish getting it on. And _damn_ if that isn't an alluring look, picking himself up on all fours, hair all tousled, watching her ponder the absolute best way to go about fucking him. She makes a thoughtful noise and reaches into bedstand's top drawer. "Stay like that," she says, deciding. He like that on the edge, and her standing; that should line things up fairly well. She'll miss whatever precious little expressions he makes, but, well. She'll get her chance later. Her hand closes on her bottle of oil.

She cracks it open and turns back to survey the landscape. He does, properly, wait for her, knees on the edge of the bed, toes curling in the open air. She pats his ass briefly. "Good boy." For this, she allows some warmth in her voice, lets it curl around him. Oil sloshes onto her fingers; she dabs some onto her thumb and circles his asshole lightly with it. The shiver that runs up his back is so obvious.

She wonders how long it's been for him-- doubtless a while by her terms, but by his? Had he actually enjoyed his Empress, or had she just been some breeding cow to him? He wouldn't have put up with someone who bored him, but there's easy ways to ignore someone like that. When did _she_ die, anyway? Or is she still alive, having outlived her grandchildren?

Unfortunate pushes her thumb inside, slicking oil around. She thinks too damn much. Twelve, he's hot inside. And, she notes with some pleasure as she draws her thumb out and slides her fingers in to get the oil deeper, he takes it awfully readily. "Aren't we eager," she says heavily, curling her fingers just so, drawing out a gasp from him. Very nice. But that should be enough. She frees her fingers, wipes them on the blanket, and gives the toy a good slathering.

She rubs her tongue against the back of her teeth, her hands moving as if on their own to cap the oil and set it aside. Sweeping her gaze up his back, she drinks it all in: the faint motions caused by his breath, the scars he's chosen to preserve, the fine dark hairs peppering his skin. She presses the tip of the toy right up against his ass but moving no further, a tease, a taunt, as she gazes down at this Ascian she's somehow tied herself to.

In one easy, firm stroke, she thrusts into him. Over his soft gasp, she hisses, "You belong to _me_." Every ilm of him, his form and his substance: the goosebumps that prickle his skin, the harpstring-taut aether she can _hear_ somehow, all of this, all of him. She holds onto his ass tight with both hands to stay steady at first, working her hips almost casually slowly, letting her-- and he-- savour the force of each motion.

He makes a little gasp with each one, voice coming through as a thin, wordless whine. A little too restrained for her tastes. She leans forward, one hand trailing up his side. With her other, she swats his ass, harder than before. "Are you holding back on me, sweetheart?" she asks, and starts to move faster.

Beneath her, Emet-Selch shakes his head, the denial made flimsy by how his breath grows sweeter, sharper, with each thrust. She spanks him again with the one hand, and presses her nails into his back with the other. Ah, he's not expecting that! He cries out, a tremor running down his body. She rakes her nails downward, leaving long red scratches behind. The way his back arches toward her hand, and not away, ah, yes.

How long had he been waiting for this? Longer than he'd ever dare admit, that much is certain. And still he refuses to give himself over-- for all his theatrics, his sounds are soft, threads of control straining at the edges. He'll give up to her by the end, though. That will be _easy_ to get out of him.

Then, as she leans forward, her breasts brushing against his back, it occurs to her that there's one thing that he _hasn't_ given her. Not once, in all the time since they met. That he would never, _will_ never, not unless she forces the issue.

So Unfortunate shifts her hands, sliding one down to rest against his ass. She steps up the force of her thrusts, hard enough that she needs to hold him in place to take her. "I need you to do something for me," she says in her sweetest voice.

"W-what...?" Emet-Selch's voice is on the edge of breaking. Still holding him as steady as she can, she reaches to stroke down his twitching, desperate cock.

"What's my name?"

The single word he repeats is an echo until it breaks off into a long, sweet groan. He's so _very_ close now-- best if she does something about that. So she takes her fingers to the head of his cock, and she takes it between them, and she _squeezes_. And Emet-Selch's voice breaks against the bed as she forces him back from the edge, hold that tight, inexorable pinch.

And she does not stop driving deep, deep into him, breathing wetly on the back of his neck, holding him tight to take every ilm of the very cock that he chose for this. Like this, she demands, "What's my _name_ , asshole?"

His lips move, shaping the sounds he makes for her, but not one of them is a name. A mortal man and she might worry he's too far gone, but no: she will never have a chance like this again. He who shed all titles once for her has never afforded _her_ the same. So she will seize her own name from him as surely as she seizes this rising orgasm.

Her voice snaps as sharp as any whip. "Who am I!"

Emet-Selch's face is practically buried down against the bed; he clutches the blankets tightly. Yet despite that, amidst his shaking breaths, she hears a tangle of broken syllables.

Not good enough. She pinches harder. "I can't hear you."

His second attempt is scarcely any less feeble than his first. She's nearing the limit of what she can get out of him, she thinks. But not _at_ the limit.

"Again!"

Now he forces sound together into a single coherent breath, an exhalation, an act of begging for release. So soft that anyone other than her would never be able to hear it, he gives up, "Unfortunate..."

She releases his cock, slamming into him, and he releases with the moan she _knew_ he had in him, loosing it all down onto the blanket beneath him. Unfortunate eases to a halt, relaxing her one-handed deathgrip on his hip. Sweat curls down her spine-- and they'd just bathed! Of all the thoughts to come to her now. They'll just have to have another.

He sags against the bed, panting softly, hands curling and relaxing, catlike, in the blankets. She remains buried deep up his ass, as she reaches down to swipe up the slick mess from beneath him.

Curiosity wins out, as always. She lifts her hand to her mouth and tastes the slick fluid. It is, as she's come to expect of him, distressingly normal; neither particularly sweet nor acrid nor any other flavour. A little salty, and not overly pleasant, but it's fine. With the rest, she leans forward, and pulls his head up a bit with her free hand. She doesn't even need to tell him what to do when she presses her fingers to his lips: he cleans them dutifully, tongue lapping up every drop.

Softer, more genuinely, she breathes, "Good boy." She pulls out slowly, and undoes the harness. It falls to the ground; she'll clean the toy later. From another drawer she pulls out a little jar of salve; she spreads some lightly onto the raised red scratches left by her nails. As she rubs it in, Emet-Selch lets out a soft sigh of a breath. So she sits on the edge of the bed and pulls him over, resting his head in her lap.

He looks up at her blearily as she smooths her fingers through his hair, soft and silky even dry, from whatever it was she used on it. He's so... pretty.

But he could be prettier. She thoughtfully reaches outside herself; yes, she does have a decent number of crystals around for alchemical use. Instead, she reaches for their aether, imagining a familiar sort of thing, clearly and precisely. "I did say," she breathes, tracing her thumb in a circle around his neck, "that you belong to me." The thing that forms around his neck is delicate enough to be concealed, nondescript enough to be ignored as a bit of jewelry. Or easily removed if he must. But, the slender, silver-traced leather band that she creates around his neck is, to her and to him, unmistakably a collar.

Unfortunate sags, letting go of aether, her breath coming harder from the aetherial exertion than even anything earlier.

Emet-Selch looks up at her, from her lap, fingers brushing over her creation. And then he shuts his eyes against her. So softly that his lips do not even move-- she can't even be sure if she's meant to hear it-- he breathes, "Chrysanthe is dead."

Was that their name? This long-dead ancient, the progenitor of the soul tangled through divisions and countless rebirths to come to her now? The one he has looked for in her-- and failed to find. Unfortunate rubs the backs of her knuckles softly against his cheek, smoothing his hair with her other hand. 

She wets her lips, and says the only thing she knows to say-- whether it be a comfort or a curse. "So is Hades."


	12. All Things Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryne does her best to help. Eventually, Unfortunate agrees to let her try. Urianger steams a good ham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a frank discussion that briefly covers the subject of rape as a thing that occurs, and an assumption of underage sexuality. Neither is graphic, and neither is depicted.

Not long after Thancred had given her a name of her very own, a real name, Ryne and everyone else set up camp. She'd determined the Lightwarden to be in Malikah's Well, but nobody was all that eager to go in immediately. Not after the day they'd just had. She watched, fascinated, as Unfortunate and Y'shtola used ice and air to blow a cool breeze throughout the campsite, and as Urianger wove a ward against the monsters that roamed the desert.

Even though Alphinaud and Alisaie said there was no need (and Thancred was certainly taking a badly-needed rest), Ryne helped them pitch the tents. There were three of them-- one for Alphinaud, Thancred, and Urianger, one for herself, Alisaie, and Y'shtola, and one for Unfortunate. Which... of course, it only made sense that the massive galdjent would have her own tent; squeezing her into the girls' tent obviously wouldn't work. But something about it just struck Ryne as awfully lonely.

So, Ryne picked up her bags and moved them over into Unfortunate's tent. Also, it'd keep her away from Alisaie's snoring. Unfortunate didn't say anything at all as Ryne deposited her things in the tent, just watched, and then sighed eventually. Her shoulders sagged, but all she did was unbutton her sweat-soaked coat and probe her fingers at her injured arm.

It might have hurt, that reaction, but the Warrior just looked so _tired_ that Ryne couldn't really hold it against her. The circles under her eyes were so dark it almost looked like she'd been punched-- but her soul was so bright. Ryne had to blink and concentrate just to _not_ see it; it was hard to imagine that the others couldn't. After all, it was even bleeding through to Unfortunate's hair-- already it had gone greyer than when Ryne had first met her.

It couldn't be healthy. It couldn't. She didn't complain about it, of course, but... Ryne wasn't even sure how worried she should be. Maybe it was normal for her. All of this was stressful for everyone, and Unfortunate was the _Warrior_ of _Darkness_ , of course she'd be under even more stress.

And she wasn't, Ryne observed at dinner, eating enough. Not so little that it really looked like a problem. But not a lot, and she ate slowly, staring off into space half the time instead of actually putting food into her mouth. It went on long enough at one point that Ryne actually reached out and poked her on the arm once, startling Unfortunate into actually finishing the meal.

Thancred was still too tired to really bother, so when Unfortunate got up after dinner to go look down at the Well, Ryne sought out Urianger. "Is Unfortunate all right?" she asks him.

It took him a long time to answer. "She is not, but methinks she wouldst not appreciate deeper inquiries into the subject. At the least, she hath not welcomed them from myself. Her nature can be most brooding betimes, I find."

"Oh," said Ryne, and looked toward the tall figure in black staring down the edge of the giant pit. "That sounds lonely."

"Mayhap," Urianger said. "Yet 'tis only betimes. I too find that I would rather have only mine own company often enough. Tis not wrong to worry, yet I would not do so overmuch. This, at least, is not out of the ordinary."

What an awful thing to be normal. Ryne rubbed her arms lightly and frowned, before heaving a big sigh. "It can't be easy to be her friend," she said, lowering her gaze. "But it seems like she needs them."

Urianger hesitated then, before bending to sweep Ryne into a hug. "Truly, thou'rt a gentle soul," he said. "The strains of duty can be a great weight upon the shoulders. Few carry it the same way. Thou mightest try, but should she rebuff thee, know that it is not through any fault of thine own."

"I'll wait until she comes back," said Ryne, looking back toward the Well. She must have wanted to be alone, after all. "Thank you."

So she went to go fluff up her bedroll instead. Unfortunate would need to come back here sooner or later. And she needed time to figure out what to say anyway. Probably better if she didn't just outright ask if Unfortunate's all right. Ryne chewed her lower lip thoughtfully; she knew she'd need a plan of attack. Helpful attack.

Ryne was reading a book by the time Unfortunate slunk back into the tend, peeling her sweat-stained leather coat off. She sniffed it, wrinkled her nose, and threw it outside the tent.

This was as good a chance as Ryne was going to get. "Um, Unfortunate? I've been doing some thinking... would you mind if I asked you something a little personal?"

The galdjent looked down at her for a long moment and sighed a long, long sigh. She sat down heavily on her bedroll, wiping a lock of hair from her face. "Sure," she said. "Sure. Whatever, I guess."

"Well, it's about names," said Ryne, twisting her fingers against each other. She put her book away, trying to figure out the best way to ask. "How does someone get named Unfortunate Incident, exactly?"

The answer came with almost no hesitation. "I was an accident."

"Huh?"

Unfortunate closed her eyes and made a small, humourless laugh. "Sorry," she said. "I owe you better than that. I don't really think of if much, but the way people get... 'Can I call you something else', 'that's not very nice', all of that... it's not my problem if they're not used to thinking of it as a name. Which, well." She opened her eyes back up, making a small smile to Ryne. "But I guess you've got good reason to be thinking about names. Uh, let me figure out how to start this."

Ryne tried to smile encouragingly up at her. "It's... well, I've never had one of my own before. I'm curious how people get them."

"Yeah." Unfortunate blew air up her face, fluttering her bangs. "Well, we're a little unusual where I come from, too. Obviously. Usually our names are prettier-- girl I share a place with back home's named Lotus Eater. Or there's a couple of the Scions, the Boulder brothers, Hoary and Ocher. Our names... we like them to mean something. But we lost our own language a long time ago. Just a few words left... better if everyone knows what your name means, don't you think?

It made sense. More or less, except for the one obvious thing. "But..." Ryne asked, "Unfortunate Incident?"

She flopped onto her back, nearly missing her pillow. "For most people, that's what meeting me is. But it's a longer story than that. One I don't actually know the truth of. And I never really want to know." She tilted her head, glancing at Ryne through her glasses and frowning to herself. After a few moments, she said, "Well, I'm not going to hide any of the facts of it. You're old enough to know these sorts of things. So it came from my mother-- I don't know who my father is or if I've ever met him. I was born in, or at least my earliest memories are of a tiny village in the mountains. But my mother... oh, my mother came from a city."

As Ryne watched, rapt, the Warrior of Darkness pillowed her hands behind her head, lacing her fingers together. She continued, "This city is called Ala Mhigo. Not one of the biggest cities in the world, nor the greatest, nor the most beautiful. But the people from that city and the lands around love it dearly. This much I know." Her cadence shifted a little, in a way Ryne hadn't heard before. Not from her, anyway. The pace of a storyteller, reciting some litany from before the Flood, a history now-meaningless but that must ever be preserved. 

"Now in the days before I was born," said Unfortunate, closing her eyes, "Ala Mhigo was ruled by a king. King Theodoric, he was called, and I pray you do not think of him as a good king, nor a wise king, nor a king who wanted the best for his people. Theodoric was not the king of fables and dreams, a ruler from a pixie-tale, a beloved man who made the sun rise with his smile. No, King Theodoric the Last of Ala Mhigo, sovereign of all Gyr Abania was known by the most singular of epithets: for he was called the King of Ruin."

Ryne couldn't bear to interrupt, even as Unfortunate paused for breath. None of the names of these places meant anything to her, and she didn't have any idea what to picture when Unfortunate spoke of them-- she could feel the stark Reality of them nonetheless. 

But Unfortunate didn't need the response, anyway. "My mother's story does not entwine with the king's. Not so far as I know. She was not even the lowliest of scullery-maids within the palace. She was like thousands of others, a mere woman of the city, doomed with a singular curse: to live in a time of great change. What she was-- is still, so far as I know-- is a smith. Not an armorsmith, nor a weaponsmith, nor a great artisan of the craft. What she made was farming implements, and toys for children, and good pots and pans. In a just world, that would have been enough."

Here now Unfortunate's pause seemed to be waiting for something from Ryne. Almost unbidden, an answer rose to Ryne's lips. "But the world... isn't just. Not like it should be."

"Nor was that enough. Not like it should have been," said Unfortunate, a wan smile crossing her lips. "It is not for me to know the descent of her life under the King of Ruin. Perhaps he insisted that even craftsmen such as she should turn her trade to weapons of war. Perhaps she angered one of the King's men. Perhaps a friend or lover or member of her family did, and was spirited away in the night. All that I know is this: enough became enough. And she resolved to leave her homeland behind.

"Here now is one theory that I have, about the name that she gave me." The hesitance grew thicker in her voice. "I could not say when precisely I was born, or more specifically when she arrived in our village. How long was she on the road? Did I come while she traveled? Or after she arrived? Perhaps even before she left. And so I am faced with an inescapable possibility, being named as I am: that I am a child of rape."

She said the words so plainly that it took Ryne a moment or two to be taken aback. She'd honestly never really thought of such things before-- she'd heard whispers, once or twice, of Vauthry needing to deliver a sentence for such an awful crime. Ran'jit had done his best to keep them from her ears. For her it was a distant horror, nothing compared to the more immediately deadly Sin Eaters. She didn't know what to do, hearing such a thing. She scooched across the floor of the tent and reached for one of Unfortunate's massive hands, holding it in both of her own. "I'm sorry." It was all she could think to say.

Unfortunate blinked behind her glasses up at Ryne, her expression turning bemused. "If it were so," she said softly, "I would not have been the first such born in that time, nor would I have been the last. Those with power would come, and they would take what they pleased. Be it property or... a person. Yet..." She took a deep, deep breath. "I think for me, it is not so. My mother does not have the death-black sense of humour one would need to name a child thrust into her by force _Unfortunate Incident_. So too do I know that I was not the child of some great lover that was stolen from her there: the name simply would not fit. And so I see two other reasons why she might have seen fit to memorialize my most untimely of natures."

Ryne nodded. She glanced away, letting Unfortunate's hand go. "What are they?"

A faint smile crossed Unfortunate's lips. "She might well have taken up with a traveling companion on the road, and not realized a thing until I began to grow. Hard travel will still one's cycles-- you must know that. But so too does a child under the breast. I think perhaps I like this one best. An unfortunate incident indeed, but one tied to a memory that I hope is happy. Or she took up with a man of the village when she arrived, and for whatever reason chose not to pursue the matter further. In such case she might, I would have thought, flushed the unwanted child away, or sought to prevent my taking root in the first place. But in my homeland they think little of the arts of alchemy, and my mother, born of the city as she was, had little trust for herbalism. So she might have lacked any choice, leaving me a reminder to caution."

"Oh," said Ryne. She curled her fingers in the floor of the tent. "I don't think I like that one as much, either."

"So there you have it," said Unfortunate, sitting back up slowly. "That's some notions as to how a girl gets herself named Unfortunate Incident. As unlikely as a girl getting herself named Ryne, I'd think." She made something like a smile down at Ryne.

Maybe a little more unlikely than that. But Ryne wasn't going to quibble. "Thank you," she said. "It... it means a lot that you'd share that with me." Had she told anyone else that story? She didn't seem to talk about herself much.

The pained look to Unfortunate's smile sort of bore out Ryne's thought on that. "Of course," she said, then her smile turned devilish. "Well, you can pay for it by sitting through a little talk I'm sure Thancred wouldn't give you, since it's on my mind now."

"Um?"

Unfortunate stretched out her arms slowly. "We're going to have to get some proper free time sooner or later. You'll have some time to yourself, make some friends, something like that. And, you know, we nearly get killed a lot. Which gets juices flowing. So there's a pretty good chance you're going to meet a boy at some point, and you'll want to know what the fuss is about. And that's _fine_. I don't know or care if Thancred told you otherwise (and it would be pretty hypocritical if he did), but that's fine. So you find me and I'll set you up with something to make sure there's no, you know, little incidents. Easier if it's before, but, eh. Sometimes you don't get the chance. We can make do if it's after. Not one word from me to anyone. Oh. And if it hurts and you didn't want it to, you let me know and I'll teach you how to break a man's kneecaps." She slid her tongue over her teeth. "If you don't have your own claw hammer, I'll get you one. What else, uh, don't fuck anyone who hasn't bathed first. Heat of the moment, I know, but, just trust me on this one. You'll regret it."

Oh. Oh. Heat bloomed on Ryne's cheeks, and she was sure she was brighter than the new colour of her hair. Words squeaked their way out of her. "I, um. I don't think I like boys like that."

"Well, then," said Unfortunate. She half-turned to rummage through her bag. "Girls are fine too. Usually don't need alchemical solutions there, but, you know, sometimes you do. If she has a dick it still counts and I can still make sure nothing happens. Even if that never comes up you still want to know all this. You could maybe feel differently at some point, or you might need to know for a friend, or, hells, you might just be curious. You have no idea how much junk I was sure I was going to hate the taste of that I stuck my tongue on to make sure, and, yeah, it tasted awful. Uh, that's not actually an innuendo. Sometimes you just need to lick a rock. Important Warrior of Darkness stuff. The point about the kneecaps still stands. And the bathing. Girls are usually cleaner. But only usually. Right, here it is."

Somehow, that just made things even _worse_. She had important things to do with her time like help save the world. And of course yes girls were great, thank you, but she'd rather think about something like going for coffee biscuits or maybe a walk around the Quadrivium or something like that. The tag end of Unfortunate's instructions then started to dawn on Ryne. "Here... what is?"

She produced a frosted glass nail file from her bags and planted it in Ryne's hand. "There you go. Keep it, and may it serve you well."

Maybe sharing a tent with Unfortunate was a big mistake after all. Ryne blinked confusedly down at the file. "Um, thank you? But I'm not sure I understand what this is for..."

"Oh, you will. One day."

* * *

A lifetime later, Ryne returns to Il Mheg with updates from Thancred for Urianger. And a box of tomato sandwiches from a little cafe she's found in the Crystarium that has the best mayonnaise. Not ordinary bland mayonnaise, but filled with garlic and basil and not too much of it, either. She knocks and lets herself inside the Shelves.

Urianger's just sitting in the front room, going over a book and making some sort of notes. He glances up toward Ryne but doesn't stop writing until she sits down across from him, putting the sandwiches on his table. "Ah, Ryne," he says, curiously opening the box. He lifts out a triangular slice of sandwich and carefully examines the toast, the tomato, all of it. "'Tis good of you to come. I had in fact just been thinking I might take a brief pause. This shall indeed make for an unforgettable luncheon."

Ryne takes a wedge of sandwich for herself. "I'm glad you like it," she says. "Because I don't actually have any updates today. Um, the girl from the Empty is still asleep-- she's doing well as far as anyone can tell-- her aether is righting itself, but slowly. We haven't really heard from Halmarut since she came here. Thancred's spotted her around town but just doing normal things. Coffee, reading books, wandering the countryside looking at plants, that sort of thing. I'm not sure what her angle is and neither is he. Do you have any ideas?"

"Not immediately," says Urianger, taking a bite of his sandwich. "I do not think she is acting out of some personal malice, but she was beyond clear where her loyalties lie. But that is indeed what we have already assumed."

She sighs. "Thancred isn't sure what to do about her-- she's not doing any visible harm and we know what she looks like right now, so causing her to flee her current form would just make her harder to trace. He thought about asking you to make another piece of white auracite but we'd still need Unfortunate for that, and she's always coming and going. And I... I don't know. I don't know if that's even really necessary. After everything, I..."

Urianger takes a moment to wipe up crumbs from his sandwich. "Indeed, let us not leap to such methods. We surely cannot persuade her from her course, but we might perhaps divert her, should we but uncover what it might be."

A quick nod, then Ryne takes another wedge. "So more investigation. I'm not sure Thancred will be happy but he does like to be busy. Oh-- right, he wanted me to ask. Have you noticed anything odd in the heavens lately? Apparently there've been an odd number of starshowers-- nothing too spectacular, but apparently villagers have been taking notice. I haven't been able to see a thing from the Crystarium-- too much light from the city, I guess."

The astrologian frowns, his brows knitting together briefly. "Starshowers? Nay, not that I have charted. I _have_ been taking an interest of late in a phenomenon of aurora borealis that seems peculiarly localized to Il Mheg. 'Tis not the time of year for such things, but..."

"Oooh, aurora borealis? Can I see it?"

"Nay." He pauses, drawing his fingers down a nearby chart. "Not for another fourteen hours."

Ryne humphs back down into her seat. "Oh. Well, I could maybe stay overnight? Thancred wouldn't mind. I'd like the chance to see something like that."

Urianger pauses to consider it. "Very well," he says. "Indeed, the fae will be pleased-- they have been urging me to serve a ham I had set aside to cure some time back. We need only steam it now."

"Steaming it...?" Ryne asked, wrinkling her nose. That certainly wasn't any way they'd prepare it around Eulmore. Or the Crystarium.

"A traditional preparation in my homeland of Sharlayan," says Urianger. "While there is no need to further cook a meat once it has been cured, the heat and moisture are thought to add nutritional vigour to the meal."

Vague memories dance in Ryne's head, of Thancred complaining about the food in the homeland he shared with Urianger. But politeness wins out. "That sounds nice," she lies.

In the end, though, it isn't as bad as she feared. It's probably more the quality of the cure than the preparation, but Ryne figures the secret to steaming a good ham is to underdo it. The rest of the evening, she spends helping out around the house, doing some of the tidying that Urianger never quite remembers to do. When it starts to get dark (something that still sends a thrill through her, each and every day) she keeps eagerly peeking out the window, looking for the strange new lights in the sky.

Urianger knows his timing though, and it's not until well past midnight that he ushers her outside, taking a ladder from a sheltered nook near his woodpile. At his urging, Ryne carries with her a thick blanket, wrapped around her shoulders. They climb up onto his roof, finding a good vantage spot to watch the sky.

The wind is brisk enough to make Ryne glad of the blanket; she wraps it tighter around herself as she looks around the sky. Urianger points for her, and she sees a faint emerald shimmer in the sky. Before her very eyes, she watches it grow and swirl, streaks of glorious green light growing through the vast starry sky. They shift and change as she watches, new colours arising-- there's a streak of bright magenta, fading to blue at the edges, swirling through the brilliant sky.

"It's beautiful," Ryne says faintly, clutching the blanket close. Her eyes feel a little damp-- from staring into something so bright? No. No, it feels all right to cry at something like this, so precious and ephemeral. She rubs her eyes with a corner of the blanket as quickly as she can, not wishing to lose even a moment of the sight.

"Aye," is Urianger's only response; he pats her hand, but he too only has eyes for the sky.

The lights are fading when Ryne hears the sound of the breeze shifting, carrying something like wingbeats with it. She stiffens, searching for the source of the sound, but in the darkness it's impossible to make anything out. She blinks, trying to adjust her eyes back to the darkness.

Before she can get a clear look, a great teal-feathered bird lands on the roof, not far from her and Urianger. Ryne squints at the figure mounted upon it-- tall, black-clad, white hair shimmering in reflected colour from the lingering aurora. The sky-lights smear together with gleaming blue soul-glow, wild and flickering unfettered in the night.

"Unfortunate...?" Ryne asks, blinking a few times. There's no one else that _could_ be, is there?

She dismounts and whistles two notes; the bird flies away. Unfortunate strides forward, coat and skirt swishing softly in the air. Wrapped around her neck is a short silky scarf, its exact shade impossible to discern. It doesn't fully hide a dark bruise on her neck, nearly the same colour as her lips in this light. The Warrior of Darkness is pale as cheese; once seen, there's no mistaking it. Unselfconsciously, she tugs the scarf, moving a brooch to cover that spot. "Ryne," says Unfortunate. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Ryne gets up to her feet; Urianger extends a hand to help her as he rises too. "I was staying to watch the northern lights," she says, craning her neck up to look at Unfortunate.

She looks away from Ryne and out at the sky, watching for a long, quiet moment. Eventually, she says softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. The time, it-- it's only mostly the same. Seconds, minutes-- they skitter around. It's hard to gauge."

"Think nothing of it," says Urianger. "The phenomenon has nearly passed. Come, let us repair indoors."

He and Ryne take the ladder down; Unfortunate selects a part of the roof that leans close to the ground and simply jumps, sharp heels sinking deep into the soft earth. Watching her try to extricate her boots from that landing dims the glamour of her look some. Ryne feels a strange tension escape from watching the galdjent swear softly at her boots and her awkward tiptoeing walk after.

Inside, Ryne goes to put some cocoa on, leaving her blanket folded neatly on top of a pile of books. When she comes back out, balancing the three cups carefully, Unfortunate and Urianger have already seated themselves. They don't seem to have started without her, which is nice. Ryne passes the cups out and moves up a stool, looking curiously to Unfortunate. There's something different about how she's carrying herself than usual; it's hard for Ryne to pinpoint. Shoulders squarer, maybe; eyes less shaded. Hair a little neater.

"Right," says Unfortunate. "I guess there's no problem with you knowing about this. But, uh, I'm leery of this getting back to Thancred. Anyway, I'd love for this to be about making progress on getting everyone back home, but so far they've got nothing new over there. This is-- related to that bit a while back, Urianger, when I asked you to be a safety contact."

"I recall," he says, a little flatly. Ryne leans in curiously, but he doesn't elaborate further.

Unfortunate looks down into her mug of cocoa, frowning abstractly. "What I was doing was-- well, I told you the end goal. Zodiark is a tainted creation-- but I think that can be fixed. In order to do that... I need to learn more about how it was intended to be done."

Ryne's eyes widen to hear it, but she stays quiet. Urianger just nods, and he says, "Indeed, that seems like a wise course of action. In principle. But how dost thou intend to learn such a thing?"

The mug shakes, just once, in Unfortunate's hand. She visibly exhales, before saying, "There's a place... in the ruins underwater, far past the illusion of Amaurot. They kept records of that nature there. I have... reason to believe it may be possible to salvage something of use."

"How could you possibly..." Ryne asks, tightening her fingers around the handle of her mug. A strange feeling roils in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't possibly be related to... no, but how?

Another long pause. Unfortunate presses her lips together, and adjusts her scarf. More self-consciously now, Ryne can tell; the red on her cheeks is more than the very subtle rouge she wears. She takes a long slurp of hot chocolate. Finally: "Emet-Selch told me about it."

Ryne and Urianger share a glance. She doesn't know how this happened but Ryne _knows_ now why Halmarut had been asking after the Warrior's activities. Ryne does her best to sound light, sound breezy, not like she's making an accusation. "When was this?"

Unfortunate rubs her thumb against her mug. "A few days ago," she says softly. A silence follows, and she adds with a sigh, "I reconstructed his soul. I crafted a body for him. He lives-- because of me. You see why I am reluctant for Thancred to hear of this. Or anyone, frankly."

Strangely, Ryne doesn't much feel a need to ask why. Unfortunate's odd fascination with the Ascian feels like answer enough-- maybe the Warrior thought she'd been being subtle, but Ryne at least noticed her chatting with him, slipping away from the others with him, and all of that. And Ryne at least had shared some hope that maybe, maybe it could have ended another way, despite everything... "There's been an Ascian asking after what you've been up to," says Ryne. "Asking what you've been up to. She didn't say why-- but she did say he's alive, somehow."

This catches Unfortunate's attention. "Who?" she asks.

"She identified herself as Halmarut," says Urianger. "I told her but little of import-- she wished to know what I had been about since Amaurot, and so I shared some crumbs with her. 'Twas nothing she would have been unable to learn on her own."

Unfortunate gazes off into the distance, frowning thoughtfully. "Halmarut... no, I don't know anything about her. The one who dealt with plants, wasn't that? Why would she...?"

"Alas, she did not say," says Urianger. "She seemed quite reluctant to be about this task, but neither did that seem like to stop her. She claimed to be unaware of the circumstances of his revival-- that she had not yet spoken with him directly. But she did not seem hostile, nor eager to escalate to such."

"Elidibus sent her, then," says Unfortunate, frowning. "Suspicious bastard. Well, fuck him. Just... fuck him. I still need to do this. I'm sick of just _reacting_ to everything. I think this can work. This will work. I just... look, I made enough trouble on the other side keeping this under my hat. I'm not letting anyone stop me, but someone should probably _know_ what's going on."

Urianger rubs his face slowly. "I shall be the last one to judge thee for such a choice. But this seems profoundly unwise, my friend."

Unfortunate drains the cocoa and sets the mug down. "Of course it's unwise. So?"

"At least do not dare this venture alone," he says. "Whatever reason you have for trusting Emet-Selch now-- he is a passing deadly man. Some measure of support would..."

"What, as a decoy?" Unfortunate snorts. "He came a lot closer to killing the lot of you than he did me. Besides-- all this shit's underwater probably, past the bubble. Only Alisaie can breathe down there, and she _hates_ him. That's not going to be productive."

Ryne feels her fists clench. "Take me," she says.

Unfortunate blinks, and looks directly at Ryne. "You won't be able to breathe," she says.

"You're both wizards," says Ryne, feeling a little dizzy. "I'm sure you'll be able to manage something between the two of you. And he-- he seemed to like me. So it probably won't be as much of an issue as if it were Alisaie, or Y'shtola, or-- or Thancred. Let me _help_ , please. You don't have to do everything yourself."

The exhalation that passes Unfortunate's lips is soft, barely audible. But Ryne makes out the words: "You sure about that?" But then she sighs, and says, "I'll ask if it's possible. If it'll make the lot of you feel better. I'll leave disseminating the information to the others to you, Urianger. To your-- best judgement. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I at least shall strive to act with greater wisdom than thou wouldst."

"First time for everything," says Unfortunate, at last cracking something like a smile. "Right, then. I've got work to do. Ryne, I guess I-- I'll meet you later. Gonna take a couple days to prep for this."

Ryne does her best to smile up at Unfortunate, too. "Thank you," she says. "We'll make this work. Together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with the extended delay since the last chapter.


End file.
